


Survival

by AbAbsurdo



Series: Road to recovery [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Relationships, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Two Person Love Triangle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:48:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24965485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbAbsurdo/pseuds/AbAbsurdo
Summary: Charlotte Bronte has written:“No mockery in this world ever sounds to me so hollow as that of being told to cultivate happiness. What does such advice mean? Happiness is not a potato, to be planted in mould, and tilled with manure.”Thomas Barrow would agree with her, and he has to find his happiness in his own time fighting his demons. Those around him will eventually understand him.
Relationships: Richard Ellis/OMCs, Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: Road to recovery [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1802995
Comments: 50
Kudos: 127





	1. But no one believed you

_It's raining inside_  
_And it's raining tonight_  
_And it's raining for me and for you_  
_And flowers die for your suicide_  
_Trains stopped in vain and the pain stopped for you_

Simon, Suede

Above everything else, Thomas was known for his survival instinct. Fighting was a second nature to him since he was a little boy, being picked on by kids his age or older, double his size in most cases, as most kids were unless they were the ones doing the attacking. Thomas had learnt to defend himself from an even younger age, never attack back and stay calm in the face of danger and his tormentors. 

From the age of five to the age of thirty, he had encountered many situations where someone older, bigger, richer, more powerful thought they had the upper hand and could defeat him. Even in the rare times that they had succeeded, Thomas had in retaliation stood firmer on his feet and tried again. 

Phyllis didn’t know his whole story after she had left home but she could recall the determination on that youthful, bright eyed face she had left behind. The man she met years later, held little resemblance to the child she knew, except for the same determination oozing from his posture.

She was sitting next to his bed, the chair uncomfortable and hard, the room empty but for a couple of photographs. The blankets from the spare bed had been tucked around him, by Dr. Clarkson’ orders. 

She had missed Dr. Clarkson’s visit, forced as she was to change the bloody clothes and by the moment she had returned to Thomas’ side the doctor had given his orders for his care. As soon as he saw, he shook her hand, explaining to her she was responsible for Thomas’ survival.

  
_She had looked down when she felt the hand squeezing hers harder than expected. “Be prepared. It may take a while to thank you from saving his life.”_

_Phyllis raised her gaze to his. “He may never forgive me either.”_

_“You’re right, Ms. Baxter. Until he does, he needs support. And care, I doubt he’s had any of it for a long time.”_

  
The boy she knew couldn’t hide his feelings, the man on the bed believed he had perfected the blank look of a servant hiding every feeling under a cold veneer. All anyone had to do was look in his eyes and every emotion Thomas felt was there, as bright as the day. Phyllis had chosen not to look any more than anyone else had because Thomas’ masks were impossible to be removed. In retrospect, she hadn’t cared enough to try.

She checked Thomas’ temperature placing her hand on his cold, clammy skin, still not back to normal after the severe blood loss despite the saline infusion. The door opened, forcing her to look at the newcomer, refusing to take her hand off Thomas’ forehead. Mrs. Hughes closed the door carefully behind her and let the tray she brought with her to a small table that wasn’t there earlier that day. 

“How is he?” 

“He hasn’t woken up yet. He lost a lot of blood. He needs to regain his strength.”

Mrs. Hughes nodded, never taking her eyes off the pale man. “I brought you something to eat. It wouldn’t help anyone, much less Thomas if you get sick as well. I brought you some sandwiches and a cup of tea. I’ll sit by his side for a while.”

Phyllis didn’t think she could swallow any kind of food with the lump in her throat. She pushed the toast down almost without chewing it with the hot tea knowing Mrs. Hughes was right. She had to be strong and healthy for both herself and Thomas’ sake. She closed her eyes, pushing the bread down, but, just like every time the last hours, closing her eyes meant seeing Thomas’ body floating in his blood. 

A sob came up to her throat and choked her. Tears ran down her eyes, no matter how much she tried to push it all down, keep her calm exterior, she started crying, loud sobs breaking through the silence of the room. Mrs. Hughes stood up taking a step towards her, but she raised her hand to stop her. “Stay with him. I’ll be right back.” 

Mrs. Hughes returned to her spot by Thomas, taking his hand on hers, pushing his hair off his forehead, just as Phyllis ran outside Thomas’ bedroom to the bathroom, letting every feeling of guilt, remorse and sorrow emerge through her crying. 

When she calmed down, she washed her face, took some deep breathes and straightened her clothes and went back to Thomas' bedroom. She found Mrs. Hughes talking to himquietly. She stopped when she entered the room. “Are you alright?”

Phyllis took the other chair and sat close to Elsie. She shook her head. “Not really. It all came back and I realised how close we came to preparing for a funeral,” she whispered looking at Thomas. 

Elsie reached over and grasped her hand. “It’s not your fault. He’s here, alive, because of you. You saved him.”

She smiled through watery eyes. “I know it. It doesn’t lessen the pain.”

“No, I guess it doesn’t. You are a step ahead of us, though, who talked with him again and again, but didn’t see anything. Didn’t want to see anything out of the ordinary.” Her Scottish brogue was thicker than Phyllis had heard it before and she looked at the older woman’s forlorn expression, so strange on her usually serious face.

“Thomas’ decision isn’t your fault either.” 

“Maybe, but I’d hardly call it a decision. We kept seeing him slipping away, being tired as he got rejected, repeatedly, and we did nothing, I did nothing to help him, to maybe ask Mr. Carson to take it easier on him. His tiredness and pain must have been bigger than the possibility of relief any time soon. Thomas never gave up easily. I cannot begin to imagine what he felt.”

Elsie’s words resonated with Phyllis’ earlier thoughts.

How could they avoid the feeling of guilt when they thought like this?

  
The hand clasped hers yet again. “He will survive this, and he’ll see he has other options in life. We’ll help him through it.”

“But will he let us?” Her gaze returned to his face. “He never did.”

“And we never tried hard enough, we thought he didn’t need any help. We were all wrong, us and him. Weren’t we?”

  
Anna came home late, winded and pale. John watched her remove her coat and shoes. She traipsed to the sofa he was resting and sat down gingerly. She pulled her legs up and leaned down until she had her head on his lap. His hand instantly went on her head, slipping his fingers through her hair. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she replied quickly. Too quickly, as if trying to cover up something. "I'm just tired."

"Why did you have to stay this late? I asked Mrs. Hughes about you when I was ready to leave and she wasn't very forward over what happened. Only that you had to stay." John wanted to leave Anna space to breathe without pushing her to confess any secrets, but he couldn't help but remember the last time she seemed so bone tired. 

She seemed to understand his conflict and raised a hand to touch his cheek and smiled up at him. "Don't worry. It's not my problem, or my secret to tell."

He sighed in relief but now his curiosity was picked by her explanation. "Does it have anything to do with Thomas' strange illness? In all the years I know him, he never got sick." He felt her stiffening in his arms. 

_What had that man done now?_

"John...," she pleaded with him.

"That's alright, you don't have to tell me," even if he did want to know, Anna's demeanour was betraying how uncomfortable about the matter -whatever it was- she felt about it. 

She gazed up at him, imploringly. "If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell anyone."

"You know me, Anna. I don't go around spreading gossip."

It seemed Anna did want to share the story with him more than anything else now. She bit her lip and shook her head as she sat up. John raised his arm and put it over her shoulders. She leaned on his side and started talking. "You can go for years thinking you know a person and then all of the sudden, he's just changing the perception in just one second."

"I guess. It's not quite common, but it happens."

"Thomas wasn't always... the man you know. He was never exactly friendly. His remarks always made everyone uncomfortable, but he used to be able to control himself as to not hurt people's feelings. He was... kinder, teasing, but not mean-spirited."

"OK." John wasn't sure if he could believe it, but Anna knew the man longer than he did. "I don't see what that has got to do with anything."

"Thomas isn't ill with the flu." She clasped his hand in her and held it close to her side.

"Mrs. Hughes sent you to call the doctor." News spread around the house like a lightning. Everyone knew everyone else's business unless they had gone to great lengths to hide them. Anna brought their hands to her lips and kissed his knuckles.

"He tried to kill himself. He slit his veins."

John straightened and removed his arm from her shoulders to pass his hands through his hair. "Did you see him?"

"No."

"How? Who found him?"

"Phyllis... Ms. Baxter... I don't know exactly how, but she realised something was wrong and had Andy break the bathroom door. She saved his life. Mrs. Hughes was with the doctor and he said if she'd been five minutes late, he might have not made it."

"How is he now?"

"I don't know. Before I left, I saw Mrs. Hughes. He hasn't awoken yet, but he'll make it. She thinks. Or so the doctor said."

“Do the Crawleys know? “

“I am not sure. Mrs. Hughes must have told Mr. Carson, and he…”

“And he probably told his Lordship.”

“Are you worried they’re going to call the police?”

“What? No, of course not. Lord Grantham is a good man. He’d never do that. No, I just don’t know what to say. I never thought… that Thomas…”

It was the first time Anna was seeing John lost for words. “Yes, I know. Same. I cannot understand how he thought, why he’d do it.”

John rubbed his face with his hand and took a seat next to his wife, pulling her in his arms, happy to have her by his side. Happy that a young, vibrant woman like Anna had fallen in love with him and decided to spend the rest of her life as his partner. “I love you.” 

She snuggled in his arms. “We do take some things for granted, don’t we?” They both knew what she meant. How contentment in a family and a person to dedicate one’s self to wasn’t an option to everyone, least of all Thomas. “I love you too. And this little one,” she took his hand and rested it on her abdomen, “will be happy to have you as parent.”

John rested his chin on her head and wrapped his arms rightly around her. And if he remembered another person who hadn’t failed to kill himself two a half decades earlier, he didn’t have to tell her. “Thomas was devastated with that Jimmy story. I never thought I’d see him as lost and defeated as that day. He still had plans though, he still considered what to do, even if he didn’t want to fight. And… I think, as odd as it seems to us, he didn’t want to fight because his… feelings for Jimmy had clouded his judgement. He wouldn’t want to harm him, even if it meant he was harming himself.

“How could he harm Jimmy?”

“He couldn’t, that’s the thing. He couldn’t. And being ready to sacrifice his whole life, not fighting back against O’Brien’s scheming wasn’t a normal behaviour for Thomas. Was it?”

She turned in his arms. “I don’t think we know what’s normal behaviour for Thomas. We can’t walk in his shoes, John. And I only understood this today.” 

  
Thomas’ sleep was uneasy.

_He was in a dessert, the room around him had no walls, only a bed, a chair and a table. There was no green, no grass, no blue, no water. Just yellow, sand and thirst._

  
_Hot and cold. He was shivering, the sweat freezing him._

  
_His clothes were drenched._

  
_A woman was sitting on the ground, nursing a child. She looked up. Staoverred at him._

_“Give me the glass of water.”_

_He turned to the table. He grabbed the glass and took it to her._

_“Why don’t you sit on the bed?”_

_She reached out. “This isn’t water, Thomas.”_

_Blood overflew the glass, turning his hands red._

_“It’s your anger.”_


	2. Won't you tell me what's in your heart?

_Thomas runs as fast as he can, gasping for breath, lungs burning and he tries to run faster, if he can only fly like a bird…_   
_He’s followed, he can feel it in his bones. They will try to stop him. Bile rises up his throat, his eyes ache, he wrists ache…_   
_The house is front of him. His sister dances in front of it as fire eats the walls, bright red swallows everything…_   
_…and they are behind him._   
_They catch him._   
_Arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back._   
_He screams but no sound comes out._   
_He scratches at the hands, kicks and tries to get himself free._   
_And he’s enveloped by red._   
_By fire_   
_By blood._

Mr. Carson did not look up from the papers he was reading when Elsie came into his office. She took a seat opposite of him gingerly. She sat there quietly, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. Minutes passed by, her foot started shaking on its own by nerves, her finger drummed on his wrist. Elsie imagined the more they stayed that way, silent, pretending nothing out of the ordinary happened today, that the blood that was spilled wasn’t in some -small maybe- percentage their fault the silence would eat them alive. 

She cleared her throat. 

Carson raised his head and glanced at her before he went back to his reading. “It’s Thomas’ file,” he said in lieu of an explanation breaking the eerie silence. “Do you remember when we hired him?”

She did. Thomas had been one of the most beautiful lads she had laid her eyes on. Tall, lanky, dark haired and fair skinned, with the eyes of the dark ocean, baby fat on his cheeks. He used to speak quietly and slowly, maybe to cover up his accent. That had never been her problem and he, in turn got over it soon enough.

“He lied; you know.” Carson again broke the silence and her sweet memories. She stared at him. Was it really the time appropriate for this? She opened her mouth to reprimand him. “Do you remember how tall he was when I hired him?”

What was he on about? The man had half bled to death hours before!

“He gave as year of birth 1891. That would have made him nineteen or close enough in 1910, same age as Lady Mary. I always treated him as the adult I believed he was.”

What did it matter? And it’s not as Charlie treated Lady Mary as an adult. Well, at least not always. His weakness towards Lady Mary was legendary and he could not be unbiased in regards to her behaviour. Even in his critique of her, he was kind and considerate, adjectives she could not use to describe Mr. Carson’s attitude towards Thomas. 

“If you think about it, the next summer he was about three inches taller, if not more. That boy was not nineteen when he first set foot on Downton Abbey. How did I never see it?”

“An adult footman needed training, not a mentor, not someone to advice him…”

“Why do you think all this now?”

“Because I thought he didn’t care. Up until this morning I thought he had no mind over what anyone thought or said about him.” 

Elsie remembered a night, years ago, when a tear-eyed and grief-stricken Thomas had seemed equally distressed over being sacked without reference and being called foul by her husband. The time was not appropriate to mention it, as Carson was distraught without knowing half the story, but it was enough to bring fore-centre the thought they never knew Thomas. 

Carson put Thomas’ papers back on the envelope. He mechanically set them back on his employees’ archive and trudged to her. He leaned on her chair and set his hands on her shoulders. “I could never even imagine Thomas Barrow would try to kill himself. It’s so out of the character I know him to be. Going forward and surviving even at the expense of others is the man I know.”

Tired and emotionally hyped, Elsie closed her eyes only to see Thomas’ bloody wrists wrapped with Ms. Baxter’s dress lining. “Mr. Carson, that boy…”

“And I wonder how much of it is Thomas, and how much is what Thomas had to be to survive.” She stood up and turned, laying her head on his chest, while he put his hands on her shoulders, standing closer than he had ever dared to be in Downton Abbey. Feeling remorse was not an entirely foreign feeling to Downton’s butler, but it had never arisen for Thomas. “Maybe I permitted my judgement to be clouded by my idea of propriety.”

“It’s not too late. And we have Ms. Baxter to thank for it.”

“Maybe she has the answers about Thomas.”

“Now, don’t go pestering the poor woman. She has enough on her head. She hasn’t left Thomas’ side since Dr. Clarkson left.” 

“I told him he looked unusually disenchanted with life, but didn’t know how much…”

“None of us did.”

  
_He’s in a well, dark, wet and drafty._   
_He can’t climb his way out._   
_Did he fall or was he pushed down?_   
_He reaches over to wall to steady himself. Dark things crawl on the wall._   
_One by one, they become more and more, surrounding him._   
_He tramples one and others come. They fall on his clothes, on his hair, on his face…_   
_Spiders, roaches and beetles… black and red…_

_Red is the water._

  
Andy knocked on the door and let himself in without waiting for an answer. Mrs. Baxter nodded to him and gestured towards the chair next to her. "I don't think he'd like it that we have all seen him like this."

"You and me and Mrs. Hughes have seen him worse." 

Ms. Baxter was one of the calmest women he had met in his life so when she asked him almost terrified to help her, Andy hadn't even thought it through before he broke the lock of the bathroom door. He had reacted instinctively knowing something was terribly wrong. What he didn't expect was to see Mr. Barrow with his wrists slit, lying there unmoving, pale, almost lifeless. The man on the bed reminded him more the man in the bathtub than the man who tried to teach him to read and learn. 

There was a strange sense of detachment following Andy the whole. He kept on doing his duties dazed and numb, which was probably the only reason that permitted him to be functional. Now thought, now he could let the emotions overflow as he stood there, next to Thomas’ bed. He knew it wasn’t just to do in front of Ms. Baxter who had stood like an angel of salvation over Mr. Barrow. 

The threat of letting sadness overpower his more pragmatic self was overpowered by doubts. Why would Thomas do it? 

Would it be possible to have it prevented? He didn’t expect the man to try to kill himself to realise he had been unfair and cruel to him. That much was clear. The sadness was boiling beneath every other emotion trying to persist in his inner unrest and his eyes were aching from unshed tears. 

“Andy!” He dragged his eyes from the body on the bed to the woman sitting next to it. “Come and sit here.”

“What would Mr. Carson say?”

“I don’t think he’ll mind. Desperate times…”

Andy sat next to Phyllis. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned down over his knees, avoiding to look at Thomas. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s a complicated man, but not necessarily a bad man. I love him as he is.”

“You love him? But…”

“I know Thomas since the day he was born. I remember his as a four year old playing in the mud, I have put him to sleep, I have looked after him in his illness when no one else would. There is goodness inside him, you are right. He’s the brother I never had. And I believe he sees me as his sister as well.”

“He’s been like a brother to me too. Protective of me as you are of him. And seeing him like this now. Or earlier today… I never thought I’ll see the day.”

Andy remembered the vibrant, self-confident man who had saved him from his naivete and Ms. Denker’s schemes and wondered when was the last time he’s seen him. “He hasn’t been himself for a while now, has he?”

Unhappily, Phyllis had to agree even if she thought Thomas hadn’t been himself for a longer time than Andy suggested.

“Why Ms. Baxter? Why would he do this,” Andy asked her and she shook her head sadly. Only Thomas knew his reasons and she was certain he would be forthcoming with them. 

_“What future?”_

Or maybe he had been as open about them, but she had not paid any attention. The regret was enough to drive her insane. 

“He’ll be alright though, won’t he?” 

She nodded. “That’s what Dr. Clarkson said. We all did a good job at keeping him alive, Andy, at not letting him die. I don’t think I thanked you for your quick reaction.”

There was no need to thank him and they both knew it. Having a reason to take their minds off their guilt was what they needed, so when Mrs. Hughes came to check Thomas before she went home for the night, they both stood to wish her goodnight. She took Phyllis aside and warned her about the possibility of Mr. Carson asking her details of Thomas’ past. Phyllis had nothing bad to say about Thomas or his past.

“There’s no problem with that Mrs. Hughes but thank you for the warning.”

“Has he woken up at all?” They were standing right outside the door now and Mrs. Hughes was stealing glances on the man on the bed. 

“A couple of times. But he hasn’t spoken at all. He fell asleep right away.”

“Who’s going to stay with him the night?”

“I will. Andy will stay for a while.”

“You need some rest yourself. And Mr. Molesley was asking about you at dinner.”

“What did you say about Thomas?”

“Mr. Carson said he’s ill. With the flu. It will keep people away as well. But…” Mrs. Hughes looked at Thomas’ room regrettably. “I’m sure Anna will speak to Mr. Bates.”

“I don’t think Mr. Bates is a man to prattle around.”

“No, he’s not.” Despite their past quarrels, Mrs. Hughes trusted Mr. Bates to keep Thomas’ attempted suicide a secret and not create any problems for him. In the past he had been most helpful. 

  
_Thomas cannot feel the left side of his body._   
_He feels his mouth filled with cotton._   
_He is in pain._   
_Numb._   
_But aching._   
_His heart is aching._   
_They open a grave, the vicar and his father._   
_Dirt is thrown on his body._   
_He sees but he does not feel anything._   
_They pick him up_   
_And he understands._   
_The grave is for him._   
_“We’ll take the evil out of you, boy!”_   
_Thomas cannot scream and he cannot move… he’s going to get them._   
_They throw the dirt on him._   
_The dirt is blood._

Richard Ellis sat in a pub in central London, nursing a beer for the last hour. John was getting married on Saturday. He had just told him today after the spent the day together. Bastard! Richard paid for his beer and stumbled out, breathing in the fresh air. His eyes teared up and he pulled his hat down a bit, looking down to avoid curious eyes. He strolled in Cockspur Street to Trafalgar Square.

He had to be in Buckingham Palace soon enough, and for the first time since he had met John four years earlier, he wished he were in York working with his Dad instead of London playing servant to the King. He put on his blank look, knowing no one cared enough to question him about his day off work. 

No one cared enough to ask if he was alright. 


	3. Pretty Words

Voices echoed through his dreams, calling for him, demanding from him the unthinkable. To live again. Distinguishing reality from imagination was impossible. The nightmares a constant in his life in both dimensions. 

_Wake up_   
_Wake up._

Easier said than done. The body which contained him was sand, diffused by the wind, his soul shattered by indifference. He would wake up eventually. 

_He sees himself from afar. He is in a garden, among flowers, fuchsia, and yellow and purple._   
_Cyclamens, carnations, orange lilies, and petunias. He sees himself picking hyacinths and tansies._

_As he closes on his doppelganger, the flowers turn into red begonias._   
_All of them turn red._   
_All other colours gone._   
_The peacefulness and beauty of the garden turns oppressive._   
_The air suffocates him._   
_He’s not liked. Desperation hits hard._   
_He can’t breathe._   
_Everything’s red again._

Mrs. Patmore cornered Elsie before she could leave for the night. She was along in the servants’ hall waiting for her. 

“What’s going on?” The question was asked in a way that no answer was unaccepted. 

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t be like that with me. What’s with Thomas? What’s wrong with him?”

As soon as she realised, she couldn’t avoid her, Elsie pulled Mrs. Patmore aside. “Mr. Carson said he’s got the flu.”

“And I could almost believe him. Only, I didn’t. So, what is it? Ms. Baxter has all but disappeared all day and Andy is white as a sheet.”

“My, you do seem to worry about Thomas, all of the sudden.”

“Not that I worry about Thomas.” Mrs. Patmore crossed her hands and stared at her. “But nothing works properly today. And it seems to be because of Thomas’ illness. I asked Daisy. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Maybe there’s nothing for her to know.”

‘Maybe there is and you keep it a secret. Andy wasn’t terrified this morning because Thomas is sick with the flu.”

Elsie massaged her temple thinking her options. In the end, having Beryl on their side was better than having her snooping around to find out what has happened. 

“Come with me. We may need your help with his diet. Ms. Baxter is with Thomas.”

“His diet?”

Elsie remained silent as she led her to the men’s side in the attic. She bit her lip slowing down her movements, wondering if this was the correct course. Thomas’ life had been saved but he should be protected. She turned to look at her old friend. 

“What’s with the look? You’re worrying me more now.”

“This is a delicate matter, and I need to know you will keep it a secret.”

“What did that boy do now?”

“Mrs. Patmore!” she snapped. “You asked to know. Now I need to know I can trust you.”

“You can trust me.”

Elsie placed her hand on Mrs. Patmore’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “That’s why you’re here.”

They stop outside Thomas’ room. “You know he’s been going to all those job interviews?” Mrs. Patmore nodded, gulping. “You’ve noticed how he’s been looking lately.”

“You mean glum and morose all the time. That’s nothing new. He’s been like this since Jimmy left. It’s a natural state for him.”

Elsie stared down at her and waited to catch up on her own. “Alright, I understand. He was lonely. He was trying to be included too, but… it was not easy. So, what?”

“So, Ms. Baxter and Andy found him in the bathroom.” She knocked the door and entered quietly as had become the norm that day. Mrs. Patmore followed silently.

Mrs. Patmore had only moments to see the pale man on the bed, when Phyllis stood and with Elsie, they all got out of the room. 

“What happened?” Mrs. Patmore whispered shakily. 

“As I said, Ms. Baxter and Andy found him in the bathroom.” Elsie was certain Beryl would come to the right conclusion on her own. And when she did, she brought her hands to her mouth, eyes widening in shock. 

“Dr. Clarkson said it’s better to stay here and not go to a hospital, or the police will be notified. Lord Grantham and Mr. Carson both agreed that the best for everyone, and mostly Thomas is for us to look after him. The less know the better.” There was a hard edge on the usually calm and collected Ms. Baxter. 

“Of course,” Mrs. Patmore readily agreed. “But is he alright?”

Phyllis gave a sad smile. “He’s far from alright. But we can hope he’s going to be.”

“Aye!” Elsie agreed. “He hasn’t been able to talk to us. Dr. Clarkson will visit tomorrow morning. We will then see what he can eat. Or when he’ll be able to eat.” She turned to Phyllis. “Thank you, Ms. Baxter. I’ll see you first thing in the morning. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Phyllis turned to leave, but Mrs. Patmore reached out to prevent her. She looked at the older women questioningly. 

“Look after him, alright?”

“Of course.”

Beryl felt more tired coming down the stairs than she did climbing them. “I feel as if we failed the lad in there. Weird that it’s Thomas, no?”

“Maybe we did.” 

“What does Mr. Carson say? Besides avoiding the scandal?”

“Same as you. I don’t think he has believed it yet. Or if he’s still in a shock. It goes against everything he believed about Thomas.”

What did they know about Thomas though? “He works here for fifteen years. He was just a boy when he came, and it was Mrs. O’Brien who befriended him.”

“Yes.” Elsie wasn’t sure, but the fact sounded more as an accusation than anything else. “Thomas was a difficult…”

“Aren’t we all?” 

“You are right, we are.”

Elsie found Mr. Carson waiting for her in the servants’ hall and they bid Beryl goodnight. 

If Beryl prepared a fresh batch of tea and took it herself to Phyllis before retiring for the night, it would stay between the two women. And if she lingered for a while in Thomas’ room just to watch the man breathing, no one had to know. 

  
_He’s not alone._   
_There are people all around him._   
_Walking_   
_Talking_   
_Laughing_   
_Embracing_   
_Affection and love_   
_He’s invisible to them. Their feelings are smothering._   
_His presence is unwanted._   
_Undesired – disliked - foul_   
_Eyes are watching him_   
_Hateful – disgusted – disturbed - offended_   
_Arms around his knees, head low._   
_Stinging pain; his wrists, his lungs, his eyes._   
_Tears, air, and blood._   
_So much blood!_

“Do you think we should be more involved in the lives of the people who work for us?” Robert rubbed his eyes, sitting down on the bed next to Cora.

“Is this about Thomas?”

“Yes, but not only him. He is the main reason, of course. I thought Carson had it under control, that he would be helpful to him in his query for a new position elsewhere.” Cora sat up and rested her hand on his shoulder, massaging gently. “But, I’m not certain any longer. Thomas has been in this house since he was a child.”

“And he saved Edith’s life. And maybe Downton as well.” 

“Life’s not been particularly easy or fair to him.”

“To be honest, Thomas hasn’t been particularly easy to be around or fair to others either.” 

“Yes, but he’s the one with the wrists cut.” He raised an eyebrow as he turned his head to kiss her cheek. “He’s the one with the questionable future, And we know many people like Thomas, and we love them just the way they are.”

They lay down on the bed, Cora’s head on his shoulder. “Do you think he didn’t have anyone?”

“That’s the point. I wouldn’t know.”

“That’s respect of his privacy and if there’s a person who needs it, it’s Thomas. I am not certain how I feel about him, but he did seem tired and despondent, as if a strong wind would carry him away.

  
“I feel useless. And it’s become more and more usual to feel it. I don’t like it. Like, I’m not the lord of this house. I don’t know what’s going on in the lives of people I should know.”

“I know. We will sort this out. You can talk to Carson in the morning and we’ll look after Thomas until he’s healthy again.”

Until he’s healthy again.   
And then what? Shove him out of the door. Maybe that was Carson’s plan. Throw him on the street? Liking Thomas or not, he is a war hero. A war survivor. He saved Edith from the fire. Robert owed him his daughter’s life. They all did.   
Downton was in his debt. 

_The air is stuffy._   
_He can barely breathe._   
_If only he could jump in the river. Let the water take him away…_   
_He reaches out, he tries to. His arms are unmovable._   
_He looks at them, surprised at the sight of the blood._   
_His tears are blood._

  
Richard was not a reader. He used to have other interests to pass the time in his younger days. With John filling most of his free hours, the rest was going to reading. And now, there was no John. 

The lump in his throat had not magically disappeared while he finished his daily duties. He pulled his shirt off angrily. Slowly, anger replaced sadness, and for now at least, he welcomed the change. Rejection hurt every time, and Richard had enough of those. Being invested to a person, to a relationship -and wasn’t that a lie? What relationship could he have? - and then being shoved aside as last week’s leftovers?   
Damn it all to hell!   
Damn love and its consequences.  
Damn betrayals and those who make them. That was his mistake. He loved easily and believed others loved him too. That was hardly ever the case.   
And he ended up alone. 

_“I will not drink.”_

He lay on the bed taking a book from his bedside table. 

_“I will not drink.”_

> _“Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not_   
>  _Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither_   
>  _Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,”_

_“I have nothing to drink.”_

He fell asleep, tears drying in his cheeks, with thoughts of barren land and purchase of whiskey.

  
_There was nothing to stop his fall._   
_An angel with broken wings._   
_A demon with smashed claws._   
_Heaven despised him. Hell rejected him._   
_He was in between. Alone, among cadavers and decay._   
_Impossible to think._   
_Unthinkable to feel._   
_Unfeeling to life._   
_Living was a curse. Dying the last hope, never fulfilled._   
_Arms raised from the bodies. A horror to view._   
_Corpses with slit wrist begging for absolution, never granted._   
_He turned his arm around and stared down at his own wrist._   
_Recalling._   
_The feel of the blade on the fragile skin._   
_Disrupting the ache, never ending ache,_   
_Creating a new one._   
_Hush, little baby, hush._   
_Every move of the razor cutting deeper._   
_The blood is from his wrists._   
_It is his blood._

He opened his eyes, as if waking from a nightmare, heart beating erratically in his chest, a light sheen of sweat all over his body, making him uncomfortable. He tried to raise his hand, but a sharp pain immobilized him. 

Where was he? He was disoriented. He knew the room but couldn’t tell exactly where he was. He turned slowly to his left. A woman was sitting on a chair. Nodding off. She wasn’t his mother. Mom was dead. 

She was familiar, but looked old, tired. 

Phyllis. She was Phyllis. Phyllis was back. Like she had promised. 

“Phyllis?” His voice was raspy, painful to talk. He closed his eyes, drained.   
What was wrong with him? 

Warm, familiar hands touched his face. “Thomas?” They pushed the hair off his sweaty temple, and he opened his eyes to look at her again. “Are you awake?” If he could, he would touch her face with his finger trying to ease the lines of worry. She shouldn’t be sad. 

“You came.” He smiled at her. “Just like you promised.” Exhausted he fell asleep again, never seeing the tears in her eyes or listening to her words.

“I came Thomas, twenty years too late.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard is reading The Waste Land by T.S. Elliot.  
> The T. stands for Thomas.


	4. Not a world in which I wish to live

Thomas did not believe in the afterlife. Killing himself would have been an exercise in futility if he did. His intention was to stop the void from eating him alive, not to live in an abyss for the rest of his condemned eternity. So, when he opened his eyes and succeeded in not closing them for more than ten seconds, he knew his attempt at peace and quiet had been a total failure. Phyllis Baxter nodding off by his side was enough to increase his heartbeat, as much as the blood loss permitted. 

He needed a cigarette. _Damn it all to hell!_

This was the worst-case scenario. Being saved, having to deal with all this nonsense again. How much time had passed? He looked at his bandaged wrists and he could remember the relief in seeing his blood mixed with the water, his joy at the end being close. Now he was drained of all energy and relief was gone, replaced by the familiar stomach clenching. Or, was it hunger? Had his head didn’t feel as if a bunch of rodents had taken residence in it and nausea was not bringing up bile he wouldn’t say no to a cup of hot tea and a piece of toast. As it was, he was certain, he’d throw it up as soon as the first bite went down. 

He closed his eyes. 

And how many of them knew? Bile rose in his throat. How many of the residents in this house had seen him? The good part at cutting his wrists was that he thought he wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath.   
There shouldn’t have been a bloody aftermath. Not for him, at least. Did this mean he’d have to put up with Mr. Carson’s antipathy to the scandal he brought to house? Again?   
Would he be treated like crazy now? On top of being foul? 

His wrists burnt in his attempt to clench his fists. 

Dr. Clarkson's entrance wasn't as quiet as the rest of the household who had come to visit Thomas. "Ms. Baxter, how's our patient? Has he awakened at all?"

"He opened his eyes a few times. The last time he talked to me, but I am not certain he knew where he was. Or when it was."

He sat next to Thomas to change the bandages and nodded in approval. "There's no infection. This is good. What do you mean?" he looked at her.

"I think he thought he was younger," she looked down, shame colouring her cheeks. The doctor didn’t have to know how she had let Thomas down.

"How do you know that?"

"Dr. Clarkson, I know Thomas since he was born. We were childhood friends. Well, he was a child. I think when he woke up, he thought he was in the past."

"I see." The doctor looked down to his patient. Thomas was still paler than usual. Understandable considering the blood loss. It was a miracle they could keep him out of hospital. A blessing too. Dr. Clarkson did not know if he could have kept the police away or Thomas outside of a mental institution. "I will talk with Mrs. Patmore about his diet."

"What do we do if he wakes up?" Dr. Clarkson took a deep breathe. He was no expert on suicide attempts. He wouldn’t confess it to anyone, but he was no expert on anything about human psychology and the man on the bed knew that better than anyone else. But now Thomas was in his care and he’d do the best to keep him alive, even against his will. Dr. Clarkson place his pointer and middle finger under Thomas jawline and kept it there for 15 seconds checking his watch. His heart rate was still low but better than the previous day and definitely not dangerous. 

The doctor glanced at Phyllis who was fidgeting by Thomas’ other side. "You don't leave him alone. I'm not certain about how he will react if wakes up and he's alone. We will see the progress. You see, you have to be in a specific state of mind to believe dying is your own option. And we don’t know how he’s be when he wakes. Ms. Baxter, may I talk to you privately for a while?"

Phyllis looked down on Thomas' sleeping face, turned to the left, breathing a bit laboured but easier than the previous day. She rose from her chair, growing as her stretched muscles ached. She placed the book she was reading on the table and followed the doctor to the corridor. "For the first couple of days, after he wakes up, someone has to be by his side constantly. And afterwards, we will see how it will go. Are you sure you can do it?"

"I am not alone at looking after Thomas, Dr. Clarkson. Andy and Mrs. Hughes are both willing to stay with him if I need to rest."

"This is exactly what I needed to hear." Dr. Clarkson stood there undecided if he should say more or not. Phyllis waited patiently, stealing glances at Thomas' room. "We had a disagreement with Thomas once. A long time ago, in the war. We were working together. In the end, he had been right and I wrong. And a man paid the price. With his life. Thomas... is difficult, and sometimes we, who have to deal with him, let it cloud our judgement." Phyllis didn't understand the doctor was trying to tell her, other than Thomas’ difficult character, but knew she had to let him speak, take it out of his chest. "But he deserves to be content. Every person does." They were both looking at towards Thomas lying on the bed. 

  
"That he does, Doctor. Thank you."

"He's got a good friend in you, Ms. Baxter."

"I'm not sure he'd agree." 

"You said that before. Thomas is disagreeable to many good things, all things considered."

The doctor returned to Thomas' side to finish his examination and Phyllis went down to the kitchen to ask Mrs. Patmore for tea for him.

* * *

“Thomas tried to kill himself,” Violet said to Isobel as soon as the door closed behind Denker. 

“What?” Isobel yelped. “Barrow? Why?” She placed her hand on her chest rubbing gently there a imaginary ache. 

Violet shrugged noncommittally. “Why do people try to kill themselves? Why do some of them succeed and others don’t?”

“But I would never think Barrow’s the type.” She thought of Thomas, tall, stoic, cold Thomas. “And don’t get all philosophical with me.”

“Everyone’s the type when life’s not what you think it should be.”

“Is he alright?”

“He will be. Or at least, that’s what I was told.”

Isobel was silent for a few moments watching the tray. She took a cup and added sugar in the tea. “When I met him, he reminded me of my sister, you know.”

“Who? Barrow?” Isobel nodded. “Wait. You have a sister? You’ve never spoken of her.”

“Yes. I had a sister. Seven years my junior. A true romantic. She fancied herself in love with every man who came in our home. She was so pretty. Far more beautiful than me with her dark hair, pale skin, and light grey eyes. Just like Barrow.” Again, she found herself lost in her memories; she was a girl again. “She tried to kill herself when she was seventeen. It took some time, but she was alright in the end. I had been married for a couple of months and was still in my honeymoon. In Italy. When we came home, Mom told me Imogene had eloped with an artist. She never told me his name and I never saw her ever since.”

Isobel had rarely seen Violet as shocked as then. “Didn’t you look her up?”

“Of course, I did. When we moved here with Matthew. She’s dead. She died some time in 1905. She was not even forty years old.”

“Did she have any children?”

“I don’t know. And they would not tell me. I wasn’t interested in her kids. Then the war came, and I forgot all about it. I don’t know if she had any children. I don’t know what she did with her life.”

“Just that she tried to kill herself.”

“When she was seventeen. And she’s now dead for twenty years,” Isobel added with a sad smile. “About Thomas? What do you know?”

“I don’t know much. You never know what’s inside a servant’s mind. And when it comes to Thomas Barrow even more so.”

“That’s cruel. Don’t you feel anything for him trying to kill himself?”

Violet bristled at the accusation. “I not only feel for his attempt, but for the boy himself. I know him since he was three inches shorter. Of course, I feel for him. But I don’t know what I can do for him.”

“I remember when he asked you to dance with him.” Both of them smiled remembering that Christmas celebration years in the past. 

Isobel saw Violet’s calculating gaze and she wished the other woman didn’t show any interest in Barrow. She never knew if Violet’s plans would work and if the recipient wanted her assistance.

* * *

_“Thomas? Are you awake?”_

"Ah, you're still here. That's surprising." His words bitter as plants roots slithering around her memories. “Leave me alone.” 

Phyllis reached over and took his hand gently in hers. “It’s alright, we’ll get over it.”

Thomas remained silent. They both knew it was his mountain to climb.   
Breathing burnt her lungs observing his inability to accept his survival was a positive conclusion. “I am sorry,” she said to him quietly. 

He kept his eyes tightly closed. Moments passed in silence. “What for?” he asked at last.

“For everything. For letting you think I didn’t care.”

“You don’t care, Phyllis. There is no reason to pretend otherwise. No one cares. That was never important to me, and I don’t know why it became now.”

She clasped his hand tightly, remember the boy of four in her arms the day of his birthday.

"Thomas," he could stop her from using his Christian name, but the tiredness had taken permanent residence in both his body and his soul. "Thomas, I'm truly sorry."

"Of course. It's easy, no?" He was breathing hard, taking the air in was painful but letting it out was akin to dragging himself on broken glass. "Asking to be forgiven." His turned his watery eyes on her, gazing with mistrust written in them. "Why are you here?"

"Because I want to."

"I believe it's because Dr. Clarkson doesn't want me to be alone until he's certain I'm in the correct state of mind and I won't attempt it again," he said in a rush, voice lowering down with each new word being spat out of his mouth. 

"You heard?" His stare didn't change. There was no softness in his eyes like the night before. Only mistrust and hurt. "Thomas, I'd be here no matter what the Doctor said. You know that."

The smile she got in reply was ugly, more teeth and a straight line of lips than warmth and pleasure usually associated with it. "I know you think I don't deserve your friendship, reasonably enough, that I have lost it when I didn’t keep my promise, but I'm here now and I won't leave you."

Thousands of ants, little scorpions and their poison were biting his skin, little needles piercing the inside of his organs, her quiet voice a reminder of lies of the past. "You know and I think, is it now?" 

The hand that held his tenderly tightened to a surer grip. "I'm not leaving. You know why I didn't return."

"You broke your promise. You left me alone." Each new accusation stronger than the other. He was right. Of course, he was right. "You said you'd come back for me. You never did." She fell in love with the wrong kind of person. He didn't say it, it was an accusation he off all people could make, because they both knew love was cruel. "You forgot me."

She wanted to deny the charges, to tell him he was wrong. She couldn't though, because it was true. For years she hadn't thought of Thomas Barrow until she had found herself in a state of need and contacted his sister. He helped her, but he asked for more than she could repay him with. He helped her deliberately, mechanically, not because of the past love they shared but because she owed him and he wouldn't let her forget. The kid she loved had been replaced by the man bitter man who lay on the bed, broken vehemently denying being mended. 

Maybe she wasn't the only one, who had forgotten him. Who had betrayed that boy's trust? The boy who had grown up to be this cold man. 

"Thomas, I won't leave."

"That, remains to be seen."

"Mr. Carson talked with Lord Grantham and they both agreed you can stay for as long as you need."

"Very kind of them."

"Thomas..."

"I will have to go, sooner rather than later. And that is all that matters, Ms. Baxter. It’s not they care, it’s that I’m a nuisance and just because they can’t kick me out the door now, it doesn’t mean they can’t wait to see the back of me. That hasn’t change.”

Phyllis didn’t know what to say to him, so when she remained silent, he took it as a confirmation. He closed his eyes and refused to say anything more. 

_Puddles of dirt_   
_Hands clasping tight,_   
_Chains around his wrists_   
_Around his throat_   
_Pulling him down_   
_Oblivion_   
_Dark waters of tears and blood_   
_His tears_   
_His blood_


	5. So Easily Broken

"I don't think you should spend all this time with Mr. Barrow," Mr. Molesley whispered to Phyllis a morning a few days later. "This is the first time we saw you for breakfast in the last week." He looked down at her with imploring affection. "Mr. Barrow would certainly not care for you, if it were you who was ill. You will run yourself to the ground and he won’t care."  
  
Phyllis took a moment to collect her thoughts and wondered when she had given him the right to question her and her actions. She liked Mr. Molesley, Joseph, well enough, but she doubted he would ever understand her feelings for Thomas. Complicated feelings of love, affection, guilt, need to protect him. Despite Thomas' apparent strength, there was always the same vulnerability hidden in his eyes she knew since he was a child. "Mr. Molesley, I cannot leave Mr. Barrow alone when he needs me."   
  
They were sitting in the table, among their colleagues and she had to keep her voice quiet so not to be heard by everyone. She caught Mr. Carson staring at her from the head of the table. She knew he wouldn't dare ask about Thomas' health there, but his gaze was insistent bordering on impertinent, unusual for the Butler. "Ms. Baxter, if I could have a word after breakfast?" he asked at last.  
  
She nodded. "Of course, Mr. Carson."  
  
"Ms. Baxter, you know Thomas from before, right?" Phyllis let her soon on the plate, inhaling deeply before turning her eyes on Mr. Bates.   
  
"Yes, Mr. Bates. I have known Mr. Barrow since the day he was born. We used to live in the same neighbourhood, and I was a friend with his older sister." I was his friend too, she thought.   
  
"I'm sorry but I was wondering, how old is he?" Anna looked up at her from where she was sitting on her husband's side. Phyllis thought she heard Mr. Carson sighing from afar.   
  
"That's not a question I expected, Mr. Bates."  
  
"Humour me," he replied with a smile.  
  
"He's thirty. Yes. Thirty. I forgot his birthday. It was last month. He was born in 1895, July. Why?" She remembered the day perfectly well. It had been the most important event in her short life. "I was ten when he was born."  
  
"How was he as a child?" Daisy asked from the door. Phyllis could tell she, along with Mr. Molesley didn’t know the true reason of Thomas’ absence. The reason she had to look after him. Thinking about the past when Thomas was lying on the bed, pale was therapeutic though. It brought back a time when she thought they were happy.  
  
"He loved animals. There was a stray tabby in the neighbourhood and Thomas was keeping leftover food for him," she remembered with a bashful smile. Her expression turned sour, "One day, we found him dead. Someone had poisoned him." She had never seen him around animals again.   
  
A chair grazed the floor as it was pushed back, the noise going straight to he nerves making her shiver all over, and everyone was on their feet following Mr. Carson who gestured to them to sit down again. "I have some business to attend to," he unnecessarily explained. "I'll be waiting for you in my office later on, Ms. Baxter."  
  
"You know he's not that child any longer, don't you?" Mr. Molesley leaned over, close to her ear to whisper. "Ill or not, Mr. Barrow is no longer that child."  
  
She pushed her chair back. "This is where you are wrong. Mr. Barrow is still that child with all the added years and experiences he has lived through. If you’ll excuse me." Even if everyone wanted to ask her a question or two more, they sat quietly watching her go.   
  
Mrs. Patmore caught with her in the corridor. "How is Mr. Barrow?"  
  
"He’s better; awake now. Dr. Clarkson is with him. He may give us new orders over his diet now that he's lucid."  
  
"Alright. I'll see you later," Ms. Baxter left her behind listening to her shouting at Daisy. At least, some things didn't change.  


* * *

  
  
  
Thomas rubbed the bridge of his nose with his right hand while the doctor changed the bandages on his left and kept stealing glances at him. “How do you feel, Thomas?”  
  
He let the hand rest on top of the blanket. “Tired, I guess.”  
  
“Expected given the circumstances. Mrs. Patmore will oversee your diet and you will be back to normal soon.”  
  
Thomas murmured something unintelligible under his breath.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
“I said normal wasn’t as good as you think it was.”  
  
The doctor placed the hand he was holding by Thomas’ side on top of the blanket. “I know, Thomas. You and I have a past, we know each other. You are an intelligent man. I won’t pretend to know what pushed you to take such a decision. But it didn’t work and now you, and all of us, have a second chance. To change. Not you, not yourself, that’s impossible and you know it. The life that led you on death’s door.”  
  
Thomas remained silent, listening to the doctor. “God knows I haven’t got what I wanted in life and it took me years to compromise with it,” Dr Clarkson said, mostly to himself rather than Thomas who thought any comparison of what life had dealt to them was laughable. The doctor stood and walked around the bed repeating the bandage change on the other hand. “If you don’t have anyone to talk to, or if you don’t want to talk to anyone, I think it would help to write down your thoughts.”  
  
Thomas snorted. “You mean like a diary?”  
  
Dr. Clarkson smiled, finally getting a reaction out of him. “Something like that. Or not exactly. Write down anything you want, not the day’s happening.”  
  
“The day’s happenings are boring.”  
  
“I can imagine. But it’s not them that are the issue, Thomas.”  
  
Thomas’ right hand picked a strand from the sheet and pulled it, wrapped it around his pointer finger and let it loose again. “I’m the issue.” His mere existence was the issue.  
  
“Would you like to have any visitors today? I’m informed many people would like to see you.” Dr. Clarkson got up and settled his used instruments inside his bag.   
  
“Can’t imagine why. They’d like to see the freak,” Thomas said quietly and then replied louder. “Not really. I don’t want to see anyone yet. Ms. Baxter, Mrs. Hughes and Andy are more than enough. More than I can handle.”  
  
“OK.” He wouldn’t insist. Not yet, in any measure. It was too early, and Thomas’ mentality was volatile, at best. An unwanted guest would do more harm than good. “But I still advice you to write down your thoughts; the good, the bad, the in-between. You may find it helpful.”  
  
Cathartic.  
  
“You have been in many dire situations, Thomas. From the war onwards, you have had many losses and had to come to painful realisations, none of which render you unworthy, but you need to learn to express your feelings, if only to yourself.”  
  
“Thank you, Dr. Clarkson. I will consider it,” said Thomas in a way that belies the words.  
  
“See that you do. I will see you tomorrow.”  
  
“Tomorrow? I don’t think the bandages will need changing so soon.”  
  
“They won’t. I will still come to visit you.”   


* * *

  
  
Anna found her husband sitting at the servants’ table. Having a bit of free time, she sat next to him. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing. I was thinking about Thomas.”  
  
“I thought as much.”  
  
“He was seventeen when I met him, Anna. Seventeen! Nothing more than a boy!”  
  
“A difficult, snarky boy who was determined to have your job no matter the consequences for you.”

“Yes. That was Thomas alright? But what did I do about it? I treated him as an adult, an enemy.”

“You didn’t want him to lose his job. Don’t do this to yourself, John.” She rubbed her hand on his forearm. 

“I was just remembering. Did you think he knew? Because I surely never told him.” 

“John, you’re not responsible for Thomas’ actions.”

“I’m not saying I am.”

“I have to return to work, but we’ll talk about it later. And remember, he’s alright, you can fix whatever you think you didn’t do right. Even though I don’t agree with you about it.”  


* * *

  
  
“Mr. Carson, you wanted to see me? Is there anything I may help you with?” Phyllis found Carson over a bunch of papers, reading through them.   
  
He gestured at the chair opposite his desk. “Take a seat, Ms. Baxter.”  
  
She sat gingerly down and waited for him to speak. She had a feeling he wanted to discuss about Thomas. Disclosing anything about Thomas that he didn’t want to share with others was unthinkable.   
  
“Yes. One of the questions I wanted to make was about Mr. Ba… Thomas’ age, but you already answered it this morning to Mr. Bates. You see, Thomas gave a wrong date of birth when he applied for the job. But, he was fifteen, if I understand this correctly.”  
  
“Thomas was fifteen in 1910, Mr. Carson, and as far as I know, that was the year he left home.”  
  
“In retrospect, he seems to have been a well educated fifteen years old. I was always certain he had finished school by the time he got here. Yes, he did look older than his age, but he behaved older too.”  
  
“Thomas, Mr. Barrow was always like that. Well, not the looking old for his age, but the behaving old for his age. Also, he had a private tutor. Tutors, actually. To be honest with you, Mr. Carson, I don’t understand why Thomas chose to become a servant, but if I have to guess I’d say it was for security.”  
  
“He’s from a rich family?”  
  
“His father had money, yes. But, you’ll pardon me to not say anything more. It’s not my story to tell.”  
  
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Ms. Baxter.”  
  
“I will appreciate it if no one else learnt about this, Mr. Carson.”  
  
“Not a thing from me, Ms. Baxter.”  
  
“Thank you.” Phyllis stood ready to let herself out of the door.   
  
“Ms. Baxter…? How is he?”  
  
She thought about, trying to find the correct words. “Withdrawn and angry,” she decided.  


* * *

  
  
  
Of all the stupid things he could have done, shoving a man against the wall of a pub at the back alley was at the top of Richard’s list. However, here he was. Richard pinned his hands on the wall and sucked a bruise on his neck. The man titled his head back, giving him more space to kiss, lick and bite.  
  
This wasn’t like him.  
  
He had to be more careful.  
  
What if someone saw them? Him?  
  
“Let me.” The man -what was his name/- pleaded and Richard let himself be manoeuvred around before resting against the wall as the man’s –Ron, his name was Ron- Ron’s hands went to his belt, unbuckling it.   
Sanity returned in instalments and his hand clasped Ron’s in a tight grip. “No! Someone may see.”  
  
“Then, come with me. I live nearby.”  
  
It was tempting. Of course it was tempting. “Sorry, no I have to go.” He kissed Ron’s lips, permitting the touch to linger, gentler than any kiss they shared before. And he left.   
  
The walk to his own apartment, a luxury, was uncomfortable physically and emotionally. He missed the human contact, skin against skin, an embrace, touching in the dark, a familiar body. He missed John. And it had been less than a week.   
  
He had to pull himself together, he thought as he locked the door behind him and pulled his coat and gloves off. He fell on the bed fully naked wrapping his body with the warm blanket, denying himself any kind of elation.  
  
It took him hours to fall asleep.   
  
Next morning found him back at work.

* * *

  


August, 1925

  
  
_“When your wrists ache, writing is difficult,_  
  
 _They pinch and ache. The scars pull against each other and the skin breaks between them. Blood sips through the stitches, red and clear, thick, liquid. I crave to scratch, destroy the neat work of the surgeon I can see will leave minimum scarring in the years to come._  
  
 _They won’t go away._  
  
 _Another reminder of life’s penchant to torture me._  
  
 _To write, the doctor said._  
  
 _Write emotions, feelings._  
  
 _How do you do it?_  
  
 _The bombs were easy, the bullets were real. Scary, horrific, both them and their work on life. Odd to remember a time life had value. My life had value, enough to maim and disfigure myself to get away from war, death and violence._  
  
 _That was real._  
  
 _Emotions damage the soul, mutilate the heart, and show life for what it is. An impostor.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I had the draft of the story, the only au part was Thomas' behaviour after the attempt thus setting the course of meeting Richard in a different way. As a I write the story, I will describe a different background for Thomas, one that shouldn't lead him to a life in service.  
> Either way, I hope you'll enjoy the story as much as I like writing it.  
> When I write Thomas, I disregard Rob James-Collier's age.  
> A.


	6. Nostalgia

  
_“Do you believe in ghosts?” you asked me. I told you I didn’t know. I had never seen one._

  
_“Do you believe in God?”_

  
_He exists and is cruel and taunting. But I’ve seen him no more than I’ve seen a ghost._

  
_“Do you believe in love?”_

_You’re here. I believe in love._

  
_Love evaporated like a horrid fume, one sided, twisted, born to injure._

  
_I believe in tea and cruelty. I believe in bread and longing._

  
_Hate exists. Disloyalty, shivering in fever, blood and guts; they do exist._   
_Among then, I exist._

  
“Something is ailing you.” Mr. Carson dragged his gaze from his vegetables to his wife. 

“Ms. Baxter told me something this morning about Mr. Ba.., about Thomas. In confidentiality.” 

Elsie let him mull over his thoughts for a while, knowing that in the end he would tell her anything that was bothering him. Even if they had a rather rocky start in their marriage, courtesy of Mr. Carson's old fashioned ideas, and really Elsie had no experience to compare. It didn’t matter how well two people knew each other; wedding brings a different dynamic between them. With time, they had found a balance that was enjoyed by both. And she had learned her husband better. So, she knew when to give him some time to think things over. 

“But I know you are not going to break it. For Thomas’ sake, whom – and I don’t know why,” he interrupted his train of thought to show his displeasure at Elsie liking Thomas, as if he was jealous of her relationship with Thomas. “Thomas, whom you seem to like, despite his… personality.”

“Thomas is loyal. If you earn his loyalty.”

“If you scheme with him at the expense of everyone else.”

“Not necessarily. I don't recall scheming with him once, but if I ask his help, I'm positive he's going to give it. Yes, he’s a difficult person. But, you’ve got to admit that he came in this house, really young apparently," and she wasn't beyond working with Charlie's guilt over this new information. "And the only one who gave him attention was Ms. O’Brien. What did you expect? You showed favouritism towards William…”

“I don’t favour footmen.”

“Indeed you do,” she rose slowly and walked around the table to kiss him on the head. “Dessert?”

“No, I don’t want any. What do we have?”

“Mrs. Patmore prepared something for us. I didn’t ask her.”

“Thomas was raised in a rich house,” he explained suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“That’s what Ms. Baxter told me. That his Father was rich.”

“Was? Is he dead? Does Thomas know?”

“No, I don’t know if he’s dead, Ms. Baxter didn’t say anything about it, only that he had private tutors when he was a child. Private tutors!”

“It makes sense, doesn’t it? The way he speaks, the way he hold himself…”

“What about the way he speaks, he’s got a vague Lancashire accent.” Elsie could see he couldn't wrap his mind around the fact Thomas had come from money.

“I don’t mean his accent, Charlie. Is that all she told you?”

“Yes. And that she doesn’t know why he chose this profession. Which makes two of us.”

“Maybe he could tell us, if we asked him. If we show him some affection and caring, he has had less and less these last years, maybe he’ll trust us enough to tell us some of his past.”

“You mean you.”

“Well, we are husband and wife, so I mean us even if it will be I who will do most the work," she smiled at him despite his not paying attention to her.

He removed his watch to check the hour. “It doesn’t work. It stopped at three forty six.”

“Give it to me. When Thomas recovers a little, I will show it to him in case he can repair it.”

“It’s not a clock, Elsie.”

She looked down at the tiny silver watch on her hand. “Same mechanism, isn’t it?” 

“I need to have it soon.”

“You’ll have to do without it for a while. If Thomas can’t fix it, then we can take it to a professional.”

  
Thomas was able to get up and stand in his room for more than a quarter of an hour the second week of his strange flu. By then, the idea of screaming and kicking everyone out his room, kept him going more than Ms. Patmore -arguably delicious- food or Phyllis’ quiet reading or Andy’s soulful puppy eyes staring down at him, guilt written inside them as eloquent as Ms. Christie.

Everyone in this house slept better than him, beside their partners, free of nightmares from the war incorporated in fevered dreams of Jimmy denying him, sending him to the gallows. Strange thing, the dreams. Thomas never did believe Jimmy wanted his harm regardless how lost and fearful he had been after his nightly escapade. His friend was superficial at times -and who was Thomas to criticise?- but not cruel, never vicious in his revenge. That was Ms. O’Brien who stood in the crowd, a light smirk on her lips as the executioner wrapped the hook around his neck.

He hated waking up remembering his dreams. They equated past and present in a grotesque hateful way interweaving his bad memories with his relatively few good ones while the latter were overpowered by the first turning everything monstrous. 

Thomas could not control his dreams any more than he could control his life. And every morning, he woke feeling unhappier and more withdrawn from the life that had kept him in her grip like a naughty child despite his fighting against it. A benevolent punishment. 

He’d been brought books, courtesy of Lord Grantham, to spend his time. He read, of course, he read, he had nothing else to do, but breathing was painful, his head was heavy, his heart constricted, too big for his chest. 

And then he saw Andy had brought him Dante’s Inferno and Elliot’s The Waste Land and reconsidered his ability to teaching as well. “Did you pick these?” He asked him the next time he came for a visit, all sad eyes and timid smile. Thomas hated seeing everyone so careful around him. At a different situation, he might have had enjoyed it. Now? It meant they saw him as fragile, ready to snap at any moment.  
Which wasn’t far from reality.

“Yes. You don’t like them?”

“It’s OK.” He shouldn't look a gifted horse on the teeth, should he? 

“If you want, I can find something else to bring you. Maybe you can tell me what you want, and I’ll look it up,” Andy said as he set the tray with Thomas’ tea on his bedside table. 

“That’s not necessary.” He curled on his side face towards the opposite side of Andy and the tea. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. In English. And in French. And Latin. He tried to remember ancient Greek but couldn’t. His heartbeat was fast and rapid.

“Don’t you want your tea?”

“I’ll have it later. Thank you.” 

“Do you need anything else?”

To be left alone. To break the china. To lit a match and burn the books. ‘I am the way into eternal pain,’ No never that. “No, Andy. I don’t.”

_Leave me alone._   
_Go away._   
_Go flirt with Daisy._

“I’ll come to keep you company later, Mr. Barrow.”

“Of course.”

_“I’m cold. Most of the time, these days. It’s in my skin, my muscles, my bones. Cold. There’s not life inside me. All of it got swallowed out of me, with my blood._   
_Where are you?_   
_Your warmth will bring me life._   
_Mom?”_

Dr. Clarkson, Ms. Hughes, Mrs. Patmore and Phyllis were all gathered at Mr. Carson’s pantry. 

“He’s angry. He tries to suppress it and keeps quiet of course. But that’s only because Thomas is an intelligent man and knows the alternative is worse for him. But he’s angry and wants to strike back. And then he’s sad and curls around himself on his body. And he talks to no one. I wish I knew how to help him.” Phyllis took the cup of tea from Ms. Hughes thanking her. The older woman nodded and returned to her seat. “I don’t know what to do,” Phyllis concluded.

Dr. Clarkson listened carefully. “Anything else I should know?”

“He spends most of his time reading. Now that he can walk for a while, he makes his room’s rounds. All day long. I’m sure pretty soon he’ll be able to come outside. Will he want to?”

“He’s not eating well. The tray comes back downstairs half eaten or not at all. And you can tell many things about Thomas Barrow, but that boy was always appreciative of my food,” said Mrs. Patmore. “I followed your advice too, Doctor. But he’s not eating well, I tell…”

A knock on the door caught their discussion short. “Come in,” Mr. Carson said and stood from his chair.

“Mr. Carson,” Mr. Bates came inside and stopped shortly. “I’m sorry; I didn’t know you weren’t along. Hello, Dr. Clarkson.” The Doctor nodded in greeting.   
  
“Was there anything you wanted to ask Mr. Bates?”  
  
“Lord Grantham wants a specific kind of wine tonight with the dinner,” he said giving Mr. Carson a piece of paper.   
  
“Yes, yes. I think we have some bottles left. Was there anything else, Mr. Bates?” He looked at him expectantly.   
  
“Not really Mr. Carson.” John looked at everyone and bit his lip. He should go and let them discuss. “If I may ask Mr. Carson?” A pause, waiting for the nod. When that came he continued. “How is Thomas?”   
  
A long sigh. “Physically, he’s getting better, Mr. Bates,” said the Doctor.

“But you don’t know what’s going on with his brain. Which, nothing new there, but not in the same way.”

Phyllis’ eyes narrowed at him, but it was Elsie who replied, “Now, Mr. Bates, I don’t think it’s the right time to accuse.” 

“I’m not accusing. But I have seen similar behaviour. And it didn’t end well. I don’t know if Thomas could attempt it again, but if he is, I doubt he’s not going to plan it to perfection."

  
Thomas’ dreaming of blood and stairs, blue-grey eyes, identical to his, lifelessly staring up at him, shouting and fear was interrupted by Mrs. Patmore’s tsking him. He took a few moments to regulate his breathing and calm down after looking frantically around him. “What’s wrong with my food, huh Mr. Barrow?”

“Mrs. Patmore… what? What are you doing here?” 

“Got myself here to have you tell me why Andy or Ms. Baxter bring down the food I cook for you untouched.”

“Mrs, Patmore…”

“Do not ‘Mrs. Patmore’ me, young man. I want to see you eat your food. And I won’t leave until you do.”

“Don’t you have a dinner to prepare?”

“No. It’s already done and eaten.”

It was a refreshing change for Thomas’ visitors. Mrs. Patmore’s behaviour wasn’t different than usual per se. She only showed an interest in Thomas she had never shown before, but in the same brusque way of hers. If his eyes widened when she called him ‘young man’ it was because he hadn’t heard since long before he had left home when his mother was still alive and his father had to pretend to care in front of her. 

“I’m not hungry now, Mrs. Patmore, but if you leave it here, I may eat it later.” He wouldn’t, but she didn’t have to know that. Maybe he could throw it outside the window. He smirked imagining Tiaa finding the food beneath his window.

“No, no! You’re going to try to eat, even a bit, and I’ll sit here watching you as you do.” Mrs. Patmore at times reminded him the cook back home, if he could call it home now, Mrs. Henderson who kept giving dessert before it was time. She was the only person he hugged before he left home.   
He imagined getting a hug from Mrs. Patmore and snorted in amusement.

“What was that?” Mrs. Patmore reminded him of her presence in his room.   
“I remembered something from home.”

She seemed interested in it. She leaned closer to him. “And what is that?” she repeated her question, clearly waiting for an answer. 

‘Mrs. Patmore, it’s personal.” 

She immediately withdrew from him and went back to the tray. “Alright then,” she took it in her hands and returned to him. “Are you going to eat alone, or am I going to feed you?” She let the tray on his chest and stared at him expectantly.

Thomas’ shoulders felt and he looked down on his food. “I will eat. On my own.”

Mrs. Patmore sat in the chair that was usually occupied by Phyllis and watched him like a hawk as he shoved the food down his throat. “I can’t eat any more, Mrs. Patmore,” his stomach was protesting, and he felt bloated. Another bite and he’d throw up. 

She took the tray from him and put it on the table. “That’s enough for now.” He poured him a glass of water and gave it to him, staring at his bandaged wrists as he sipped carefully. “Silly boy,” she said quietly. She felt the urge to push his fringe out of his temple. And then he looked up at her, his grey eyes, big and oddly innocent looking. She wanted to say something to him, anything, to release his fears and make them go away.

A knock on the open door stopped her thought, as Elsie came inside.   
I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“No, not really. Mr. Barrow has been nice and has eaten his dinner. I will leave you alone now.” Another man and she would have leaned down and kissed his cheek.   
Next time, she thought and was not surprised she wanted to cajole Thomas Barrow.

“There,” Elsie said and she straightened the sheet covering him, “How are you today?”

Ready to be absorbed by the earth, shattered in million pieces. “Better than yesterday.” He had learned it was the best description. No one knew how he had been yesterday, but they expected him to be getting better. Physically, he was better than the day before. He wasn’t lying to the woman who had saved his life. 

“So you see I brought you work. Mr. Carson’s watch has stopped working and when he told me I wondered if you could fix it.”

_He was standing behind his father who was working on his big mahogany desk in the library. Small parts of clocks and watches. He reached his small hand to touch a sparkling piece. A big hand hitting his own. “Be careful. Don’t lose anything.”_

_Just watch._

_He shivered._

“Thomas, are you alright?”

Breathe in, breathe out. “Perfectly. Leave it on the table and I will see to it tomorrow. I will tell you if I can fix it in the evening. Or ask Ms. Baxter to tell you.”

She smiled and pushed his hair out of his face. 

Where did that come from? 

“You will tell me tomorrow when I’ll come see you. But, don’t overwork yourself. Mr. Carson is not in a hurry.”

He nodded, but he didn’t believe her. 

  
1926, March

>   
>  _“Guilt. The difference it makes! Such a powerful emotion._
> 
>   
>  _I can see them, pitying me, feeling sorry._
> 
>   
>  _Couldn’t understand it, haven’t felt it myself._
> 
>   
>  _It occurred to me to manipulate their guilt. At what cause? Nothing left to make me happy, nothing left to want._
> 
>   
>  _Cannot work it. Don’t want to make them sadder._
> 
>   
>  _What brought me here, they wonder?_   
>  _Was it their fault? Could they have stopped it?_
> 
>   
>  _Deep inside, somewhere long forgotten, cold and lonely, pleasure coils around their care before it gets enveloped by darkness and isolation, my old friends greet me again._
> 
> _The need is to be left alone, with open bruises and wounds, with hurt dignity and aching body._
> 
>   
>  _The blood is like a wave inside my veins, powerful and strong, begging to be split and spread its poison outside my body.”_

Richard let the newspaper on his bed, taking T.E.’s words with him, as he had done ever since he discovered the new writer in The Sketch a few weeks earlier. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A guess over Thomas' middle name?


	7. Living is Isolation

_Falling!_

  
_That moment of utter horror and inability to react. Falling._

  
_The eyes open just before the dreams open the door to a reality different of the one you live in._

  
_This was different._

  
_Falling. Among familiar scent, flesh, and warm, soft cloth. A disturbing noise, a crack in the middle of peacefulness and love._

  
_The end of love._

Thomas woke up with a start, heart hammering in his chest. He looked around alarmed. In the darkness of his room he thought he saw a figure sitting by his bed. His eyes adjusted in the darkness as he calmed down.

“Phyllis,” he murmured recognising her. He remained quiet, not taking his eyes off her even as he let her sleep.

September 2nd.

_The Doctor doesn’t know it, but I’ve been writing since the day I returned from Somme. Sleep avoided me or I avoided sleep until my eyes couldn’t be kept open, hand numb from the pain. Half burnt candle by my side, ink all over my fingers, a queer projection of the blood behind the eyelids. Most difficult to wash away, but easier to remove it from memory and thought._   
_Let me tell you from the start, writing does not help. Anything._   
_I can sit down and pour my darkest thoughts, my most embarrassing secrets, the most painful truths, and I won’t stop carrying them with me wherever I go._

_September 3rd._

  
_Kisses in the rain. What a concept! I miss the sun. Feeling warm is a luxury. But the idea of a kiss comes with the sense of coldness. The kiss is the warmth, it is the sun after a cold, windy day the cold seeps through your clothes and rain leaves you wet and frozen to the bone._   
_Like I feel now._   
_No sun._   
_No kiss._

September 4th.

_How does one write when one is never alone?_   
_The morning sun is unrelenting. Its light on my hands show the scratches and scars so I close my eyes and see the scars on my soul. I welcome the evening with its dimmer light, as I lie of the bed, listening words I have read before, seeing friendly faces that have been hostile just days before._   
_The night comes and I am disenchanted with the future. It’s what brought me here, in the stillness of my bed, under a strange quilt, in pain and alone despite the people around._

September 5th

_I’m not keen on guilt. I’ve said that before. Regrets? Not so much either. Nothing, none of my big plans had ever worked, and if anything worked my interests it was by pure luck. And the interests were hardly mine._   
_I miss you lately. I miss everyone I thought I loved._   
_The elegant you. With the brown eyes and the mohair suits._   
_The money’s gone, hasn’t it?_   
_Hate’s replaced lust._   
_The naïve you. Blue wide eyes and clothes same as mine._   
_Where are you? Have I ever apologized? Have you really forgiven me? Did I need forgiveness? Or acceptance?_   
_Would it have changed anything?_

_My feelings were crumpled in the dirt. Love is crushed in its birth._   
_Do I regret it?_   
_Am I guilty of loving you? What a strange thing to say. Guilty for loving, of loving. Fool for not being loved. Queer thing. Love. Never freely given to me. Asked but never received._   
_Such a lonely feeling._   
_Love is a rose. Beautiful to look at, but prickles and blood is shed again._

  
Thomas closed his diary. Even writing his inner thoughts in his private diary was impossible. What if it was discovered? What if he ended up in prison for having his most personal feelings and reflections written and used against him?

* * *

The stroll around the Abbey did not clear her mind. Following Mrs. Hughes’ advice for a walk and to get fresh air before she got sick herself had brought no rest or refreshment. 

“Ms. Baxter!” 

She turned to find Joseph coming towards her worried. “Mr. Molesley. What are you doing here?”

“I’m helping with Mr. Carson. Now that Mr. Barrow is sick, Mr. Carson asked me to take duty. If I could.” His tone of voice was disapproving of Mr. Barrow’s illness.

“And what about your classes?”

He made a vague gesture with his hand, looking down at her. “I finished with them. I haven’t seen you in a couple of days. Mrs. Hughes told me she sent you for a walk. Are you still assisting with Mr. Barrow?” All questions tumbled out of his mouth quickly, taking no breath in between.

Phyllis was at her break point. Tired, emotionally and physically, exhausted by mental repeating of actions and words she could have used to show Thomas she cared before he had tried to kill himself. She had seen his efforts to include himself and hadn’t helped him. She didn’t know how.

The afternoon sun was warm, and humidity was high. Joseph took her by the arm and made her sit on a bench. “Come on, sit down before you fall. You are more important than Mr. Barrow.”

He looked down, eyes widening when she took his hand in hers. Heart beating erratically in his chest, he gazed at her face. She was staring right ahead, avoiding his gaze, her eyes glassy. “Thomas is my family. The only family I have. I will stand by him no matter what.”

“He’s not your family, Phyllis.” Her given name in his lips sounded strange, but right.

“He is. The only family I have left. I abandoned him once when he needed me. Despite everything, he helped me when I needed him.”

“He helped you just to use you.”

“But where would I have been if it wasn’t for Thomas? I once considered his sister family too. Not anymore,” she added with a sad smile. “She doesn’t want me.”

“Mr. Barrow doesn’t want you either.”

“He needs me, though. And it’s all that matters to me. I won’t give him up.” 

_‘Not even for you!’_ hadn’t been uttered but it hung in the air like rotten perfume.

“He’s not ill, you know,” she said as she stood up. “He slit his veins.” She left him sitting there alone, giving him time to absorb the new information on his own and make his decisions for the future. 

  
Her family consisted of Thomas Barrow. If he wanted to be part of it, his would too. 

* * *

The last person Thomas expected to come and visit him was Isobel Crawley. They had worked together during the war, but their relationship was never as good as the one he had formed with Lady Sybil, and of course it had not lasted after the war. However, there she was, holding a package of something, nonetheless.

Was there anyone left not to know?

“Mr. Barrow, sit down, you still are too pale and weak.”

He mechanically sat on the bed against the headboard, pulling his legs up. 

“I was told you like brownies and I had them made specifically for you.”

“Thank you.” 

She let them on his side table, next to his book. Her gaze fell on the photograph on the other side of the table. She took it in her hands. “Is that you?” 

Thomas nodded. “Yes. It was my fourth birthday. I don’t remember much, to be honest.”

“And the woman?” She hesitated to touch the face of the woman holding small Thomas in her arms.

“My Mam. My tummy ached and Mom had picked me up for the photograph.” After his nightmare, Thomas didn’t want to think of his Mother. The feelings were raw and aching more than his bandaged wrists. He was reminded of the moments after his hand had shuttered with a bullet passing through it. The first seconds he felt nothing, but then, then the ache was unbearable, seeking through his whole arm, numbing his head and the left side of his body.

“She’s beautiful. Do you still see her?” Mrs. Crawley’s question brought him back to the present. 

“She died that same year.” His fingers clenched and unclenched the sheet in his hand. 

The fingers were still on the photograph. “I’m sorry you lost her so young. Was she ill?” 

Please, stop! 

“No.”

A warm hand touched his face and pushed the hair off his temple. He stared up at her shocked. “I am sorry for upsetting you,” her voice was soothing and calm. With a last caress on his hair, she left him alone.

* * *

It felt strange. A switch was turned and what was wanted, needed even, days before but loathed to be shared with him was now freely given but he no longer wanted it. He was almost never alone. Ms. Baxter -back to Phyllis now- was sitting by his side for long hours, reading to him, bringing him his food, giving him pain pills to lull the pain into a dull throbbing. Her presence was in no way shouldering or annoying. It was just unwanted. Andy was cheerful looking, but timid and quiet. Mrs. Patmore came often to make sure he ate her food. Mrs. Hughes mother-henned him to the extreme. It was pleasant. He enjoyed it. It didn't turn his day brighter though. 

Thomas couldn't bring himself to say anything unsavoury to Phyllis, or to anyone else for that matter, and his thoughts were as unwelcome as the dreams, his memories or the visitors. The better he became the more people came to visit him. He never expected Lady Mary to come visit him with Master George, but there she was, feeling guilty over something she had done. Thomas didn't want to return to an era his mission in life was to hurt everyone just as much as he was hurt, but couldn't bring himself to feel guilty over everything he had said or done in the past either. He tried, even before he had made the decision to end it all, but even then, he didn't feel guilt over his actions. 

He thought about regrets quite often these days. He kept writing of them too, following Dr. Clarkson' advice. He kept seeing regret written in the faces of his visitors. It was an interesting concept, but he was too tired to use it on behalf of his own actions. After all, they wouldn’t change anything. What was done was done. He mulled on it in the long days that consisted of his recovery and return to normal life. Regrets and moving forward with a new job. He was given an extension to his welcome in Downton, but he knew it would not be infinitely; he would soon have to leave.

* * *

  
One day he woke up to Mr. Bates sitting on Phyllis' armchair. He was reading Thomas' book. "Interesting choice of reading," he said in lieu of a greeting. Thomas resisted the urge to rub his head to ease the headache on its birth. Mr. Bates closed the book and placed it on the side table and turned his gaze on the bandaged wrists. Shame coiled in Thomas' stomach and anger to have Mr. Bates looking at his worst, knowing his weakness. Anna certainly had told him. The need to attack was back, say something cruel to force Mr. Bates to leave him alone. For once, neither his wicked tongue nor his witty brain proved to be faithful assistants. 

"I had a brother. Ronald was five years younger than me," Mr. Bates said suddenly, surprising Thomas into taking notice of the spoken words. "Ron was the best boy in the neighborhood. As a child, he was a good student and a loving son and brother. You must wonder what that has to do with you. When I returned from the war, Ron had changed into a vicious young man, finding pleasure in hurting those around him. I tried to contact him and win him back, but he refused to talk to me. I gave up on him. Eight months and two weeks later I was called by the police to be told they had found my brother dead. We had the funeral and when I returned home, I was greeted by a letter he had sent to me before his death. When I met you, you reminded me of Ron and I often compared the two of you wondering why you lived, and he didn't. And I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for."

"But I am. We are all responsible for our actions, Thomas.”

“And what have you done to be sorry for?” Thomas’ sluggish mind was trying to wrap itself around the idea Bates had done something to him to be sorry about.   
Knocked against a wall.

Mr. Bates’ hand went for his elbow. Thomas felt the touch and looked down on it as it wrapped around him in a gentle grip. 

“I was juvenile for reasons that had nothing to do with you.”

“Well…”

“I’m trying to apologise, Thomas.”

And therein lay the problem. Thomas -as it was- he looked at him confused by his persistence to apologise. The hand on his arm squeezed him, offering comfort. 

“You don’t have to,” he closed his eyes, sleep already taking him deep, away from Mr. Bates’ fumbling apology. 

Thomas would have been horrified if he had felt John pushing the fringe off of his forehead. 

  
“You’ll never know how much you reminded me of him, Thomas.” 

**Living in darkness**  
A biography

I

> When Mother smiled, the corners of her mouth lifted, and small lines created around the rosy lips. She was beautiful, Mother was. With her dark curls and blue eyes, lean and fast frame. She could tell her stories, different voices for every character and sounds for incidents of sorrow and shock to entertain her little boy, Gabriel his name was. He would follow her around the house, expecting to be lifted in her arms and carried around. “You’ve becoming too old and heavy to be carried around, pumpkin,” she’d say to him, while she bent to pull him in her arms, push the hair away from his face and kiss his cheek. “You will soon need a haircut,” and she’d nip at his neck and tickle his sides to listen to her baby boy’s laughter.
> 
> II
> 
> Mother had run to his room. She pushed a few of his clothes in the valise she had with her and nudged him awake. “Come on, baby boy. Wake up, sweetheart.”
> 
> Sleepy eyes identical to hers stared at her. “Mama?”
> 
> Grabbing him in her arms, she changed his clothes and bundled him beneath her own coat.   
> They were on top of the stairs when he caught them. Her. Harry was half asleep in her arms. Shouting had pulled him away from the last sweet dream of innocence.  
> “You’re not taking him with you.”
> 
> “You don’t want him. You never did!” His Mother’s voice was louder than he had heard it before.
> 
>   
> An angry push found both mother and child plummeting down the stairs. And awful crack was heard by the disoriented boy. 
> 
> The next thing he knew, he was standing dressed in black, his older sister’s hand holding his in front of his mother’s coffin. 

  
Thomas remembered Phyllis’ warm hand covering his gently. The other had been broken in the fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas' diary will never be published.


	8. The Black Cat

> _Cybele's lap was warm and the fingers petting his fur were gentle. Her voice was kind and Tom thought he had finally found a family. After months running to save his life from the bigger animals out there, being caught in the young woman's long dress was a blessing. She had brought him home -her home- and had given him milk to drink, warm from the stove._
> 
>   
>  _"Eat, little one, I can feel your bones." His little heart pounding in his ribcage, his whole body shaking in her arms._
> 
>   
>  _Time passed._
> 
>   
>  _He was no longer shivering from the cold, no longer hungry, no longer looking frantically around him to see the danger before danger caught onto him._
> 
>   
>  _He purred dramatically and Cybele laughed, her big belly rumbling through his small body._
> 
>   
>  _Fifty days._
> 
>   
>  _Fifty days, he had been happy, well taken of._
> 
>   
>  _In the beginning of his sixth week in his new home, Cybele gave birth. A boy with eyes like the sea and hair like the sun was born and he was hers. He was let out of the house, content and happy for his mistress._
> 
>   
>  _Those days he had a family and freedom. He strolled around the village, certain of his position in the home. He stayed close to home. He didn't dare go beyond the city gates, he refused to hunt the mice in the churchyard going against his nature. The time when he was the mice was part of his recent memories._
> 
>   
>  _He returned home later than night. Cybele was sleeping in her big chair with her baby boy on her chest. He wrapped his body around her feet on the floor keeping them warm and safe._
> 
> _He woke up in the middle of the night, hackles risen. An ugly smell permeated the air around him. He yowled in fear and pain. Cybele woke up with a start._
> 
> _To find her baby dead on her chest._
> 
> _She shrieked waking up her husband in the other room and the neighbours who came rushing in seeing the mother weeping her loss._
> 
> _One of the older men pointed at Tom, who wasn’t certain what had happened but was trying to get closer to his mistress to offer comfort and stop her crying. He was trembling fearful of the change._
> 
> _“He killed the baby!”_
> 
> _Someone kicked the small cat, and another grabbed it from the scruff as Cybele was lost in her grief. “Black cats bring bad luck. He was here with the newborn. He sucked the breath from his mouth. The demon suffocated the baby.”_
> 
> _They took Tom from his home and Cybele and shoved him inside a sack and threw him to the frozen river to get drown or die of hunger._
> 
> * * *

“What do I do? I have no son, he has no mother,” Isobel stood in front of Violet, asking her but not expecting an answer, looking at her but not seeing her.

“Sit down, dear. Take a breathe.”

“You should have seen him. He tried to hide it, of course he tried, what was I even doing there? He was so small looking. For a man as tall as Thomas,” the name rolled in her tongue, so strange and at the same time as familiar as it could be. “He looked tired and pale, lost under the quilts that covered him up.”

“Drink some tea. Calm down.”

Isobel raised her hands up and let them fall by her sides dejected. She looked up at the ceiling and swallowed. “I don’t want tea!”

“What do you want?”

“He’s… I don’t have a son anymore. When Matthew died my world collapsed into nothing. I was alone, lonely, and lost. That’s how he was today. I could see it. I was, am a mother without a son. That’s not being a mother, is it? He’s a son without a mother. He told me as such.”

“How about Lord Merton? What are you going to do with him?”

“What’s Dicky got to do with it?”

“Well, it depends on what you plan to do with Thomas, doesn’t it?”

“Dicky’s son cannot and will never be mine in any capacity.”

“But Barrow can?” Violet watched Isobel’s reactions carefully. She was walking up and down on the lush carpet. Isobel turned to look at her for the first time that evening. She sat down, inhaling deeply.

“I don’t know.” 

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I left, like a thief, as fast as I could,” she laughed. Violet thought it forced. “ I have to think about it.”

“I don’t know why you make it a big deal. You tell him the truth and you help him recover. As far as I know, Robert wanted to let him go, with a reference of course, but he’s not needed in Downton Abbey any longer. Or so they think.”

“Is that so? Poor child,” she rubbed her forehead. “Does he have anywhere to go?”

Violet raised her eyebrow and took a sip from her tea, lukewarm by now. “Doesn’t he?”

Isobel signed deeply.

* * *

It had been a week since Edith had returned home and she had to go back to London sooner rather than later to make the last arrangements for the Sketch. She would miss it, she would miss working there, managing it. It gave her a purpose, a meaning for her life when she needed it the most. It gave her Michael, and it gave her Marigold. She threaded her fingers through her daughter's curls. Her beautiful child. Despite the pain and despair, she wouldn't have changed it for the world.

  
She wrapped her arms around the small body. Marigold reminded her of her father, she looked so much like him. The pain of his loss was not as fierce as the first months she had learned of his death. Time passed so quickly these days. It was only a few months before her wedding with a man she loved, but she couldn't help but wonder about her life with Michael. Had he lived how different would her life had been. Tears filled her eyes, and she tightened her arms around Marigold. 

  
Meeting Bertie was a miracle; his agreeing to marry her despite Marigold a true interference from God on Edith’s behalf. She had never felt as blessed. She looked down at her child and gave her a watery smile. God had blessed her before, when she met and loved Michael, loved by him in return, as unconventional as it was. She’d been blessed when she gave birth to Marigold, when she decided she couldn’t let her grow old away from her. Bertie had come second. But had she given herself the time to grieve Richard?

She stood from the armchair by the window and let her sleeping daughter on her crib. She bent down and kissed Marigold’s blonde curls. As she stood, she saw a bunch of papers on the bedside table.

> **The black cat**
> 
>   
>  _“Down below the city lived all sorts of cats. They lived quietly and peacefully, hunting in the days the sun lived longer. In the short winter days, they were treated like strays by the folks above and were given leftovers to stay strong in the whiteness of snow._
> 
>   
>  _There was once a black born to two tabbies, all ginger. Ginger was his older sister too. Their little family lived on a small bit of ground with other families living close by. When he was a baby cat, the Mother cat looked after him, fed him and kept him warm, licked behind his ears to keep him clean. He played with her tail, and his sister's tale and even at time his own tale._
> 
>   
>  _His father kept his distance._
> 
>   
>  _Tom, as was the black cat's name was four months old, still small, and fluffy, had a friend._
> 
>   
>  _Let us call him Ed._
> 
>   
>  _Ed was a tabby as well, grey with stripes like all his brothers and sisters. He was the younger of his family, but still older than Tom. Ed would lick Tom clean and Tom would play with his tail. And they would run around each other trying to catch the other. They would snuggle, Tom's little head on Ed's tummy and fall asleep on the yellow and orange leaves of October. The two of them played together out in the open and spent their time together when they were dismissed by their families and older siblings._
> 
>   
>  _Tom was running behind Ed when a dog appeared out of nowhere. A big -black like himself- dog that was awfully close to his friend. A dog whose teeth found their way around Ed’s scruff._
> 
> _Tom’s claws manifested and he threw himself at the monster that had caught his friend. He scratched the big dog who let the bloodied Ed from his mouth only to turn against him when all the cats of the territory came and managed to drive the dog away. Tom meowed pitifully and went to him friend, licking him gently._
> 
> _He wasn’t permitted to play with Ed after that. Everybody thought it was his fault Ed had been injured. The small tabby had a lost one eye, and he would never be what his family expected of him._
> 
> _Tom was blamed._
> 
>   
>  _For a while he stood just a little away from Ed watching his friend from afar. His mama no longer licked his ear. Tim played with his sister’s tail no more. He was all alone, blamed the dog attacking Ed._
> 
> _And one night, his papa took him to teach him how to hunt._
> 
> _And he never returned home.”_

Edith read the first pages and folded them. It was a tale. She didn’t remember reading it before. That moment, George and Sybbie came into their room with their Nanny. 

“Auntie Edith!” both kids ran to her and hugged her. The children of her sisters, both taken after them and their fathers. She kneeled on the floor and kissed them on their cheeks. “Shhh,” she smiled and brought her finger to her mouth. “Marigold is sleeping, we don’t want to wake her up, do we?” 

“No, we don’t,” Sybbie stated emphatically and George agreed with a nod. 

Edith looked up at the Nanny. “Can you tell me where you found this tale?” She showed the pages.  
“I don’t know M’lady. I didn’t bring them here.”

George pulled her sleeve and she leaned over, bringing her face close to hers. “Mr. Barrow reads it to us.” 

Edith blinked. “Mr. Barrow?”

Sybbie nodded. “Yes. He had stopped coming to read us for some days. He was sick, but he had tea and the doctor made him better. He brings new tales every day. He must have forgotten that here yesterday.”

“I want the black cat to be happy,” George whispered sadly.

“Mr. Barrow said he will be. Mr. Barrow keeps his promises, George.”

“Alright. Time to clean up and nap, I think,” Edith looked at the Nanny. 

“Is it anything wrong with those, M’lady?” she gestured towards the papers in Edith’s hand.

“No, no! Everything is lovely. I’ll take them to read it and then I’ll bring them back so the kids listen to the end of the story.” 

“M’lady, I think it’s time to get ready for dinner.”

Edith checked the time and went to her room to change. He took Barrow’s papers with her, silently promising he’d get them back to children before the night ended. 

He sat quietly waiting for and later enjoying her dinner, listening to the conversations between her family members absentmindedly. When Carson with Andy and Molesley brought the lemon pudding, her thoughts went back to Barrow.

“I’m here for five days and I haven’t seen Barrow yet,” she observed, cutting every conversation on the table. “Carson, where is he?” 

She noticed everyone gazing at each other, and Andy stood immobile for a few moments. Eventually, Carson replied to her. “He’s taken ill, M’Lady and I have released him of his duties for a few days.”

“I see,” Edith said, even though she didn’t. She couldn’t remember Barrow ever taking ill. How could he pass his time with the children’s in their room and read to them if he were ill? Unless he had been reading to the kids before his illness. Sybbie had said they’d seen him the day before. “I wish him a quick recovery.” For the first time, she wondered how Carson treated the rest of the servants. For Barrow to still be off duty it meant Carson cared about his health. 

“Yes, well, we all do,” her grandmother chimed in as she usually did. 

“Thank you, Carson,” Edith said.

* * *

“Lady Edith was asking after Barrow,” were Molesley’s first words when he entered the servants’ hall, only to find a gaunt looking Barrow sitting between Mr. Bates and Ms. Baxter.

“Was she?”

“Yes, Mr. Bates, she was. I told her Mr. Barrow has taken ill. Mr. Barrow, good to see you here. You’re feeling better, I presume.”

“Thank you, Mr. Carson,” Thomas pushed his chair back and stood, his palms on the wooden surface of the table to steady himself. “I’ll go take some fresh air before heading to bed. Good night.”

Phyllis stood with the intention of following him. Molesley put a tentative hand on hers. “Let me.” She seemed unsure but nodded and sat down again.

“I can go,” Mr. Bates offered and Molesley might have expected the offer from Andy, but never for Bates. The knowledge of what Thomas had done had rattled everyone, not just Molesley. 

“It’s alright. I want to talk to Thomas about something,” his eyes locked on Phyllis and with a slight nod of his own he followed Thomas outside.

He found Thomas leaning against the wall, the light illuminating his paleness. “Mr. Barrow?”

“Mr. Molesley,” Thomas returned, his gaze locked on his cigarette between his fingers. “I can’t smoke,” he offered a little piece of information. “I lit it out of habit, more than anything else,” he gazed down on the burning embers. “But it’s impossible to take the smoke in without coughing my lungs out. Strange, innit?”

Was it?

“You’ve been ill. You need time to get back to normal.”

“Hm… normal, yes. “He finally looked at him. “What can I do for you, Mr. Molesley?”

Nothing. 

Everything.

Molesley didn’t know. Phyllis’ words were his only thoughts from the moment she had left him alone in this same place. 

_Thomas is my family._

“Ms. Baxter sees you as her family.”

The grey eyes, as dull as they currently were, looked at him. Molesley could hear the other man breathing in the quietness of the night. “She’s my family.” The long fingers played with the cigarette even with their owner’s attention elsewhere. 

The sky was clear Molesley noticed as he stared up at it, avoiding Thomas’ penetrating gaze. “She told me as much.”

How to say this to Thomas Barrow of all people? “You don’t think I’m good enough for her, do you?”

“Don’t take it personally, Mr. Molesley. I don’t think anyone can be good enough for Phyllis.”

He couldn’t understand it from what he knew of Ms. Baxter’s history with Barrow. He had treated her awfully. “But you… you hurt her. Intentionally. You said she wasn’t good.”

“Phyllis’ mistake was not keeping her promise. My mistake was behaving like the child who was left behind. Alone. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve the world.” Thomas pushed himself off the wall, and Molesley took him by the elbow steadying him. “In a fair world, Phyllis would have had the chance to have her heart’s desire.”

“In a fair world, we all would, Mr. Barrow.”

“Not all of us would deserve it though. Not everyone deserves what he has in life, does he now?” Thomas’ mouth twitched. “Treat her as she deserves, and we’ll be alright.”

Footsteps were heard from their left and they turned to find Lady Edith looking at her. “Hello. Mr. Molesley, may I speak with Mr. Barrow?”

“Of course, M’lady. Will you be alright on your own, Mr. Barrow?”

“Yes, thank you. I can find my way in the dark,” Barrow said with a self-deprecating smile.

Molesley let them alone, thinking their conversation and feeling he got Thomas’ blessing. 

Edith came down the stairs in the servants’ hall. How many times in her whole life had she been here? She used to come often as a child, but the older she got the less she visited the people here. Not many things had changed downstairs over the years.   
If any. 

Everyone stood when she entered. “My lady, what are you doing here?” Carson bit his lips, possibly questioning his own impertinence, if Edith was to guess.

“Mr. Carson, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please, continue with your dinner.”

“No worries, my Lady.”

“I am looking for Mr. Barrow Mr. Barrow. I’d like to talk to him.” Edith watched intrigued at the replay of the same emotions as when she asked for Barrow during dinner. Mr. Batter sported the same expression as her father and Mrs. Hughes resembled her granny. Adopted expressions of people knowing and communicating with each other for decades. 

“He’s right outside, M’lady, with Mr. Molesley. Should I take you?”

“It’s not necessary. Carry on. Forgive me again for interrupting your dinner.”

As she stepped outside, she heard them talking.

“In a fair world, Phyllis would have had the chance to have her heart’s desire.”

She stood there quietly, unseen listening to their conversation. _Who was Phyllis?_

  
Placing herself in the shadows she could see and observe the two men clearly. Molesley was plain enough. Barrow though. This must have been the first time she saw Barrow as something more than the boy, later man, whose job was to stand and serve her, her family, and their guests. 

Overhearing their conversation -and did she really have the right to do so?- she noticed for the first time since she was sixteen how beautiful the man was. She had been in society for many years now and had encountered many men to be able to tell the difference between plain and attractive. 

  
That moment, Thomas Barrow, sickly looking and pale, projecting a fragility she would have never before associate with the man, was beautiful. No other word fit. 

She turned her attention to their words and compared it to her own thoughts of her servants. Shame coloured her cheeks. She stepped ahead and the men turned around when they heard her. 

As soon as they were left alone Edith started talking. “I was just told you were ill, and I wanted to see you. Do you feel better now?”

If he was surprised by her concern, and she had no reason to doubt he was, Thomas didn’t show it. He didn’t even look at her, she was staring away, at the distance. “As good as I can be. Better than I was, M’lady. I was told it will get better though,” he shrugged, as if the matter was of no importance to him. He stood ramrod straight waiting for anything else she’d have to say. 

Edith frowned. She reached into her pocket. “The kids told me you’ve been reading this to them?”

“Yes.,” his eyes narrowed to slits. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’ve read it, and I liked it a lot. The end is missing though I am sure you know, and I wanted to ask you where you found it so I can read it.”

“To the children?”

“To myself,” she smiled at him and it seemed peculiar. When was the last time she had smiled at him? At the man who had saved her life? Had she ever thanked him?

“I didn’t expect this,” he took a deep breathe coughing his discomfort. “ I can bring it to you tomorrow if you want, M’lady.”

“Can you bring it tonight?” They slowly reentered the house, from the servants’ entrance. “Or are you too tired?”

She could recognise the indecision in Thomas’ posture.

Had she overstepped? She couldn’t remember the last time she was so flustered. Thomas’ movements were slow, lacking their usual elegance, heavy as if he shouldered the whole world like Atlas. 

“Come with me,” he breathed. He was tired just by talking. 

“Thomas? Are you alright?”

The smile she got in reply was sad. “Of course, M’lady.”

“You didn’t say? How can I find the book with the tale?”

“It’s not published.”

‘Then how did you find it?” They were walking side by side and he turned to look at her. And she understood. “You didn’t. You wrote it.”

She waited for Thomas to bring to her the rest of the Black Cat. “I brought you the original version, not the one I changed for the children.” She observed him coming and going, his usual energy missing. She was not used to want to offer comfort -especially to someone like Thomas Barrow- and the idea is shocking. She’s left to spend the night examining her feelings and reading Thomas’ story. 

“You told the kids it has a happy ending,” she hesitated for a moment before teasing him the next morning. 

“As I said, my lady, this is the original story,” and there was the Thomas Barrow she knew for more than half their lives. “Written for me, and for adults.”

“And how about the other one? The one for the children.”

“It’s happy.”

“How so?”

“He finds a family and he’s accepted, even as black as he is.”

They were sitting in the library, after Edith’s invitation. Thomas fidgeted not knowing where to put his arms, constantly tapping his foot. Edith stood slowly and meandered towards the table thinking what to say.

“Barrow,” she poured tea in the cups and offered one to Thomas, who accepted it with a nod, hiding his surprise. “Thomas, my life changed when Michael, Mr. Gregson asked me to write for his magazine. It led me to a different direction that brought me here. Reading your story last night, I wanted one of the last things to do in and for the magazine is publish you. If you let me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having Edith as an (unreliable? at times) narrator was interesting.
> 
> The next chapter is the end of the first part of the story and the beginning of the second.
> 
> In case there are any questions, feel free to ask.


	9. Interlude

_True, it's pain to walk_

_through love's narrow passage_

_Until darkness falls,_

_a day of death_

_Deep and sad a passage_

_I shall remember for a long time_

_What does it cost me inside the heart_

_to pass through it again?_

_Let it be, what is the benefit_

_I always yearn for the kiss_

_Last kiss, first kiss_

_With such a longing never to be met_

_With equal desire._

_Perhaps a day when I’m already gone_

_The kiss will finally be mine._

> March 12, 1926
> 
> To T.E.B.
> 
> I take the liberty to write to you this letter as a token of admiration.
> 
> Your words came to soothe pains festering with me at the right time. I am not certain I would have written to you, had I been able to discuss your words with friends, but afraid of queer eyes on me had I confess the cure to melancholy was more melancholy, exquisite hurt written in elaborate sentences that lived and breathed pain I thought you’d be the one to understand me.
> 
> Words are living creatures under your masterful pen. The images, feelings and heartache haunt the reader, they haunt me. They remind me of the past, and they tell me I’m not alone. They feel like a stroking hand on the fevered forehead wanting to heal and offer a way out.
> 
> The few moments I have on my own, I walk alongside the river and my thoughts travel back to you.
> 
> With cordial feelings
> 
> RE

* * *

> April 2, 1926
> 
> To RE
> 
> To return the sentiment, your letter came when I needed it the most. New beginnings, new terrors to be fought. I am settled under safety and among friends for the first time I can remember. Reading your letter, a stranger’s letter who can understand and be grateful feels like an enormous feast of the soul.
> 
> Penning words is a need I never thought would be shared with anyone else.
> 
> Pleasing someone through them is a surprise I couldn’t foretell.
> 
> Be well
> 
> TEB

_An Autumn night, before the war. Big room in an old house. Two figures talk to each other. The light is dull from the candles. The moonlight is relentless. It shows the truth behind jovial faces, the lies._

_One figure is tall, but leaning down, kneeling before the other, ready to assist, accept orders. The other sits on expensive quilts, pretending to feel as strong._

_"Let me come with you," says the first. "The moon and the shadows will cover our tracks." Hands reach to knees. Asking to be heard, to be loved. "We'll be good together. This house is haunted. It doesn't want me here. Its people detest me, and I have no feelings for them."_

_Lips seek the knuckles, hands are brought to chest, hopeful eyes meeting suspicion. "Let me come with you."_

_One walks alone in love, alone in glory and in despair. Alone in war and death. One sometimes wishes for more. To be two. But in one. A pair, like scissors._

_To be a knife? Or a scissor? What pains the most? What cuts deeper? Easier?_

_"Let me come with you."_

_Desperation oozes from every begging word. The other is aloof. Ears closed off to the need and will of the other._

_Love is the thorn that cuts deep, the blood copper in the tongue. The carpet is pulled under the feet. The drink leaves ashes in the mouth._

_The game is lost, burnt with loving letters in the fire._

_Who can play this game until the end?_

_The figure stands and tries again, letting the leash pull to the unknown._

> April 6, 1926
> 
> To TEB
> 
> I didn’t know if I should write again. Your letter gave me hope it would not be unwanted to write again. So, here I am, wanting to write and not knowing what to say to you. The weather is dreadful. I was walking along the Tower of London, and history swallowed me up. Death and riches, and past, present, and future. Everything in a tower.
> 
> Our strongest and most impressive defences, the earliest stone keep in England, grand accommodation for the king, Bishop Ranulf Flambard was imprisoned there.
> 
> Should I go on with the history lesson? Maybe not, but what I wanted to say your feel to me as resilient as the Tower of London, changing through the years but becoming stronger because of it.
> 
> Respectfully
> 
> RE

* * *

> April 28, 1926
> 
> To RE
> 
> Comparing me with a building, a tower like that nonetheless is not how I see myself. Half destroyed, derelict, abandoned, full of weeds, damp creeping in through cracks in the walls sounds more like it.
> 
> I have seen both kinds of houses. I know what they hide behind their appearances. It doesn’t one is better than the other. All of them have their histories behind them, none needs our pity, it’s ruthless time that falls upon them, and some have tenderness gifted to them. Others don’t.
> 
> I appreciate your sentiment and thought. Maybe all I need is a thorough paint and cleaning, steady as I am.
> 
> History lesson was nice. You have more of those?
> 
> TEB

_"Who's going to remember you when you die?"_

_The words cut deep into my flesh, the pain reaches the mind as bodies fall around me, bloody, shattered to pieces. An arm there, a leg further down the dirty ground._

_"Who's going to remember you fondly when you die?"_

_Heart aches something new and visceral._

_"Whom are you sorry you'll never see again?"_

_Soul crashing bombs, chemicals stealing away sight and beauty, eyes and nose, and ability to be._

_"Do you dream you are getting out of this alive?"_

_Wet cigarettes and leeches, boiled water, and reused tea leaves. Better than nothing. Better than brown water._

_Injuries and blood and aches. Loneliness and fear. Horror of what you see. Horror of what you live through._

_Fear you're going to die. Hope you're going to die._

_"Is this salvation?"_

_You're no soldier but death is standing by your head._

_"Where do I go from here?"_

_You are no doctor, but you stitch the wounds, and re attach the bones. You see the gratitude in hollow eyes. You look away. It's too much._

_"Do you want to live?"_

_A new morning comes, another comrade lost, more bodies fallen, unrecognisable from the brutal force of death._

_"Do you want to go home?"_

_What home?_

_You don't want to die._

_Not yet._

_Not when you have no one to cry for you. No one to miss you._

_You don't want to die anonymous in a foreign land for a war that is not yours._

_Coward, someone may say._

_Coward, but alive._

> July 3, 1926
> 
> To TEB
> 
> I have to ask. Is it life or is it imagination? Lived experiences or fantasy?
> 
> But let me tell you something. A little time ago, I fancied myself in love. That's rather deceitful. I was in love and thought to be loved back. I'd told no one, but people noticed I was happy. They did, I think. You can imagine it was all a lie. I loved but wasn't loved back. It was when I found you in the Sketch. Is it you? Is it your fantasies, deep worries of a life not lived, or is it you? It's hard to say.
> 
> I feel connected to you through them, but I'd hate for you to have lived through it.
> 
> You are here and that's enough, I think.
> 
> RE

* * *

> July 26, 1926
> 
> To RE
> 
> You'd ask, you had to ask, didn't you? Of course, you would.
> 
> Why, hello to you too, dear stranger, who wants to know the most sacred of my secrets. My mistake, I'd say, since I let myself be convinced to publish my dreams and nightmares, but there you have it. Is it a true artist when there's no imagination living inside him? Am I truly a writer when everything I write is part of me, unwanted and adversary to my wellbeing?
> 
> Many writers write their memoirs, full of themselves as they are. Nothing was written to be published, since you ask so kindly. Some of what you read, so harmful to myself, is written more than a decade back in time. More recently I went into revising it a method of healing. And someone found them. And here we are. My life and disparities pay well, I can tell you that.
> 
> Now what? Too broken to keep writing to me?
> 
> TEB

_That dull light from the candle extinguishes; I'm tied down, alone, unemployed, it's night, I tremble, I burn_

_Hand outstretched, seeks redemption? or is it hand that wants to crush me?_

_Carnal secret sweetness, only with you I breathe_

_I know you, but not your name, I beg of you, do not leave me!_

_When was I born? Was it the past? The present? The future? Will I be born again? Different but still the same? An odd amalgamation of past me? Will people like me more? Hate me more? Will I learn to love myself as I love thee? Would I exchange this life for the next? What do I long? A child's hug? A person's hug? To be a partner and a parent? Things I'll never have. Arrogant, selfish, names that follow me like a shadow ready to swallow me down._

> August 5, 1926
> 
> To TBE
> 
> Dear friend,
> 
> I'm sitting here, on my desk with the nicest view of London, trying to think of what to write to you. Broken is to much of a strong word for London's newest sensation. Trust me, people read you and are in awe. I don't know how much it helps you to know that. But it's the truth. And I sit here, writing to you. It's a secret between You and Me. A secret I don't have to keep, but a secret I want to keep. This is mine. Yours and mine.
> 
> You don't know much about me, so let me tell you. I had to leave my town at a young age. I could have worked at my father's shop, get married, have kids by now. I didn't. I chose a different path in life. Many may envy me. I'm paid well, I live well, I have privileges even if I'm not a privileged man. For many years it was alright with me. I have a better life than all of the people I know. Recently, something is eating me inside. I wonder if I should leave everything and return home to start all over. I'm not a young man anymore. Something holds me back.
> 
> Someone may describe me as broken.
> 
> I couldn't care less.
> 
> Do you?
> 
> Yours
> 
> RE

* * *

> September 12, 1926
> 
> To RE
> 
> Thank you for sharing your story with me. It raised more questions than answering them.
> 
> I apologise for the late reply. I didn’t know what to write. An anniversary of an unpleasant event made my brain blank and lethargic. I had been off work as well. I do have a job, you know?
> 
> Not knowing what to do, God! not knowing what tomorrow will bring.
> 
> Sometimes, I feel my only enemy is myself. More often, I know it's not. The thought has brought me much misery. It reflects in everything you read. What's missing is the anger. Hot, boiling anger. The anger and animosity that used to drive my actions and thoughts when I was younger.
> 
> I miss it.
> 
> I don't miss the drama. It caused me more pains that I'd like to repeat. And it's not of your interest, is it now?
> 
> You're a friend. It's been a long time I had one.
> 
> Your friend then,
> 
> TEB

Richard sat on his desk. He often took TEB's letter out of his drawer and read them, again and again. By now, he knew the words by heart. He had organised the letters with the Sketch clippings. He had done a good job, if he could say so himself.

He pulled a random cut-out from his stack of papers.

It was the third publication of one TEB, rather darker than the previous ones or the ones that followed. At the time it had resonated with Richard's own sense of dread.

_"He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."_

_Nietzsche was right all along. It takes a lot of strength and courage to come face to face with a monster and not become one yourself. It was a miracle he was here now, still alive and breathing. He should have been dead, twice or more times. He could count them. In the great war, miracle upon miracle kept him alive, while others around him were cut to pieces, poisoned, gotten mad, sent home to die a painful death. Awaiting death among loved ones. It hurt more. Or less. He wasn’t sure._

_Home was not a shelter of protection. Death had come home as well, enveloping everyone with his dark wings._

_It wasn't the same for everyone. It's never the same. Some deserve more, others deserve less. It's always the same who deserve the most. He never deserved more. He saw injustice from the water he drank, to the clothes he wore to the person he loved. Their truths, their lies, not his. He tried to survive in a world not made for him._

_He bowed and bowed and bowed. As much as his face was hidden from those around him. And then waited in the corner, like an ornament, not of the expensive ones, easily replaced if broken._

_One day he got up and he knew he had become what he despised. Anger gone, the real culprit was found. When no one left to blame, he blamed himself. He took a knife from the kitchen and locked the door of his small, grey room. Cut after cut after cut. To his mind this was betrayal. A war waged between guilt and innocence, anger and defeat. Where did the blood go? Wounds were open._

_The next morning, they found him dead with many marks done by the kitchen knife, lying in a pool of his own blood, in his best clothes. He was the Lord of himself. It was a victory, like light shedding darkness around him. His face was simple and serene, a smile upon his blue lips._

_They said he was crazy._

_They said they didn’t understand._

_He had brought it to himself._

A shiver ran down Richard’s spine. He knew TEB now, better than he did when lost in his sorrows he had decided to send him a letter, not a single thought of getting a reply. The words were soothing. Others had it worse. Others could understand how he felt. TEB could understand how Richard felt. Six months later, his worry about the other was burning alive inside him.

He was certain TEB was male. He had been to war.

“Mr. Ellis? Mr. Wilson is asking for you.”

Richard put the letters inside their hiding place, straightened his clothes and went to find his Supervisor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first poem is a rough translation of a poem by [Napoleon Lapathiotis](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Napoleon_Lapathiotis), a Greek poet who was born in 1888 and committed suicide in 1944.
> 
> The rest are mine.
> 
> This chapter took me long to finish because I couldn't find the right words of the characters' correspodence (as opposed to Baking Eclairs for example that it is so easy in comparison). Letters were written, deleted and re written multiple times. Hopefully, it works for time era.


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